


Trenchcoats and Capes

by Jominerva



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Friends to Lovers, John's a hero, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Secret Identity, Sherlock needs saving, Slow Build, They're a bit younger here, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6087484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jominerva/pseuds/Jominerva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He’s twirling a strand of hair around the finger of his other hand. His coat, which honestly looks more like a cape than anything, is spread out beneath him. His chest rises and falls slowly with calm breaths, the tight black material of his suit stretching to accommodate the movement. John has seen many pictures of him but not one did him any justice. The sight before John is breath-taking. It isn’t right. Evil shouldn’t look this good.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call Me A Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smthstrnge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smthstrnge/gifts).



> Firstly, I would like to thank both [helloitslbo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/helloitslbo) and [superblue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/superblue) for beta'ing and [teaandcakes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandcakes) for britpicking this. Thanks to you all this fic is ten times better than it was originally and I really do appreciate you guys for it.
> 
> Secondly, I want to dedicate this fic to Misty who has been my source of encouragement for finishing this since I got the idea back in October (I _think_ it was October) last year. If it weren't for her constant enthusiasm this might have never gotten finished. So thank you, and I hope this lives up to your expectations. :)

That’s going to hurt in the morning.

John swipes at his mouth and sure enough, there’s blood. Yep. Definitely going to make him pay for that.

Several feet in front of him the bastard gives him this impish grin and John wants nothing more than to wipe that smile off his face.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” he taunts, and even from a distance John can see his opponent’s answering smirk.

“Actually, no,” he answers. “I’ve been working on something I’m sure you’ll just _love_.” He waves his hands with a flourish and John tears his eyes away from the man to look at the black clouds swirling above them. They block out the sun and cast a menacing shadow over the two of them. Then there’s the deafening crack of electricity and a blinding light knocks John backwards. His chest stings, but he is relatively unharmed. To anyone else the blast would have been fatal, but to John it is nothing more than a slight shock.

He dusts himself off and chuckles. “Is that it, really?”

He watches his adversary rise from the ground, arms held out, palms facing upward, and the clouds begin to rumble. John watches with an awestruck smile on his face at the breathtaking image of the man before him: the lean figure shrouded in a dark trench coat that billows in the breeze like a cape, the wild mess of curls sitting atop his head gently tousled by the wind, the black mask that reveals nothing more than a sliver of his bottom lip and those piercing grey eyes.

John is almost too distracted by the sight of the man to remember he’s supposed to be fighting him. Finally he gathers his wits and thrusts his hands out, the familiar burn of the energy beam a welcome feeling when it radiates from his hands. He knocks his foe down from the air, causing him to land on his side with a thud. He doesn’t seem discouraged; In fact, there’s a smile on his lips when he lifts his eyes to John’s.

“So, it’s going to be like that, is it?”

John quirks an eyebrow. “Isn’t it always?”

The man laughs and stands, and the fight resumes from there. His opponent charges, and John dodges out of the way. There’s another attack, another dodge, a shared smile before another dodged attack. They’re so in sync with each other it feels more like a dance than a battle. The thundering clouds and occasional crackle of lightning paired with the low hum of energy shooting from John’s hands serve as the background music, and every flip and sidestep is simply a piece of choreography. John falls easily into the routine, almost moving without thinking.

Ever so often the clouds come alight and John can hear nothing but rumbling and static. He sees his opponent’s face only occasionally, when it’s illuminated by the brief flashes of white light or a beam of energy that John sends his way that comes close enough to nearly singe his hair.

John moves on the offensive and crowds his adversary against a brick wall. He’s close enough to see the manic glint in his eye. A tiny bit of pink darts out and captures John’s attention. He's too distracted to anticipate his opponent’s next move, and that’s how he ends up being pushed down onto his back with the villain looming over him. His knee digs into John’s thigh uncomfortably, but John is able to lift his other leg and kick himself free. His opponent falls roughly away from him and John sits up in time to see a dark trench coat tumbling over the building’s ledge.

“ _Sherlock!!_ ”

In a moment of blind panic John rushes to him and thrusts his hands out. He manages to grab one of Sherlock’s hands, but the grip is weak and their hands are sweaty. John almost gets pulled over the edge as well, but he manages to remain upright and starts to pull.

A pair of wide eyes stare back at him when he looks down.

“...John?”

John feels his hand start to slip and his heart feels like it’s being torn in two.

No. It can’t end like this. Please, no.

\---

_6 months earlier_

Baker Street, Baker Street …

John’s tired eyes scan the signs around him. The crisp October air wraps itself around him in a cool embrace as he makes his way through the streets of London. He always walks fast now, as if by keeping a quick pace he can run away from the memories that threaten to rob him of his sanity. He weaves his way through the crowd of civilians, pausing every now and then to stand on his toes and make sure he isn’t getting himself lost. It’s been a while since he was last in the city. Eventually he finds the door with the golden 221B on it and knocks. He’s greeted by an older woman with kind eyes who introduces herself as Martha Hudson, the landlady. She ushers him upstairs to a door that opens to what he guesses is the sitting room.

Straight ahead of him is a desk piled high with stacks of papers, and two windows overlooking the street below. To his left is a fireplace and a pair of mismatched armchairs. There’s a couch against the rightmost wall with a young man stretched across it. His eyes are closed and he doesn’t seem to have noticed John yet. John raps lightly on the doorframe.

“Excuse me, Mr Holmes?”

The man’s head snaps up and a pair of surprised eyes stare back at John. Perhaps he hadn’t been expecting him to show up so early in the day? He’s still wearing his dressing gown; perhaps he isn’t ready for John’s visit yet.

He pulls himself from the sofa and crosses the room in two long strides to stand before John. The way he looks down at John is reminiscent of the way a panther might eye its prey before attacking, and John finds he can’t look away from those captivating eyes. The man drops his gaze minutely before returning his eyes to John’s.

“Forgive me, I didn’t hear you come in,” he says quietly. John doesn’t know if he should respond, so he remains silent. The young man lifts a hand to his chin and runs his fingers along his jawline, narrowing his eyes at John. “People don’t usually surprise me like that. I always know when someone enters a room.” John is still at a loss for words and flounders for a moment before he’s able to remember the reason for his visit.

“Are you the Mr Holmes from the advert in the newspaper?”

“Call me Sherlock, please.” He extends a hand, which John takes gingerly and gives a weak pump before letting go. The skin of Sherlock’s palm is soft like silk, and warm like he’s had his hands wrapped around a mug of tea or coffee. John scans the room for a mug but sees none. Sherlock notices John peering over his shoulder and steps to the side to give him a better view. The place is messy, but nothing John can’t deal with. He’s survived much worse than a messy home. And this does feel like a home. It’s been so long since John has been able to say that about anywhere.

“So, Sherlock says, “would you like a tour, or should we save that for when you’re actually moving in?”

“What makes you think I’m going to move in here?”

Sherlock smirks in lieu of giving a response. He pushes himself off from where he’d been leaning against the doorframe and gestures around the room with a lazy hand. “This is the sitting room. That’s the fireplace, my armchair, what will be your armchair –”

“–If I move in.”

“This is the desk where I do my work. That’s the sofa. The kitchen is through there.” He points at a nearby doorway. “Bathroom is down the hall. It’s the door on the left. The door at the end is my room.” His eyes dart back to John. “Never go in there.” He drops his hand and turns to face John fully. “Would you care to see your room?”

“It’s not my room yet…”

Sherlock lays a large hand on John’s shoulder. “It’s upstairs. Come, follow me.”

Sherlock turns swiftly, his blue dressing gown billowing out behind him as he ascends the stairs. John ambles after him, a bemused smile on his face as he trails after the strange man. When they reach the top of the staircase, John steps past Sherlock into the room and takes a look around. The bed is neatly made, every surface dust-free. The room is empty, but inviting, like it’s just waiting for John to come and breathe life into it. He feels Sherlock’s eyes on him. He turns around and holds Sherlock’s gaze for a moment before either man says a word.

Sherlock is the one to eventually break the silence. “Any questions?”

“Why are you so confident I’ll move in here?”

“Because I want you to.” Sherlock smirks. “And I always get what I want.”

Once again John is speechless. He wonders if that will become the norm if he does move here. Sherlock blinks at him, clasps his hands together behind his back. “So…?”

John stares at him for a moment, then smiles. He gives Sherlock a pat on the shoulder when he walks by him to go down the stairs."I'll be in touch."

\---

John moves in about a week later. He glares at the smug look Sherlock greets him with when he opens the door.

“John, so nice to see you again,” he says in an overly sweet tone. John snatches the key from his outstretched hand, but there’s a smile on his face when he speaks.

“Yeah, yeah. Just shut it and help me bring up these boxes.”

Sherlock does just that, and less than an hour later the two of them are standing in John’s room surveying the mountains of cardboard boxes surrounding them. John’s amazed at just how many things he has. He hasn’t been back in London all that long, no more than a month actually, which certainly isn’t not long enough to have collected this much stuff. Then again, no one truly ever knows how much they own until it’s time for them to move it all somewhere. The majority of his belongings were just clothes or things large enough to fill an entire box by themselves, so in actuality he supposes it isn’t all that much.

Sherlock comes to stand beside him. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up and cuffed, exposing his pale forearms. John has never seen skin so white in his life, or skin that looked so incredibly soft.

“Would you like any help unpacking?”

Though the question is asked in a friendly manner, John can’t ignore the grimace on Sherlock’s face as he looks over the boxes. John briefly considers saying ‘yes’ just to see what Sherlock’s reaction would be.

“That’s fine, I’ve got it.” He eventually says.

Sherlock flashes him a quick smile and turns toward the door. “Great. I’ll be downstairs then.” He pauses in the doorway. “Do let me know when you’re finished, though. I thought we could go out for dinner, my treat.”

“Oh, you don’t have to –”

“I insist.” The way Sherlock says this leaves no room for debate, so John just nods his head, and Sherlock descends the stairs.

About two and a half hours and a dozen unpacked cardboard boxes later, John finds himself seated across from Sherlock at a ritzy Italian restaurant with food so expensive they don’t even have the prices listed on the menu. The air is thick with the scent of garlic and freshly baked bread. The carpet is plush beneath his feet and the music sounds like it’s being played by a live band rather than through some speakers overhead.  A single candle sits at the centre of the table and John watches the flame flicker until their waiter arrives, a young man with a nametag that reads ‘Dante’. John stumbles through his order, mispronouncing nearly every word. If that weren’t embarrassing enough, Sherlock then proceeds to order in perfect Italian. John isn’t the least bit surprised.

“So, you’re bilingual,” he later says around a mouthful of risotto.

Sherlock doesn’t look up from his plate. “I speak eight languages, actually. Ten when it’s convenient for me.”

“Oh, right.” John doesn’t know what else to say. He’s glad for the plate in front of him if for no other reason than the excuse it gives him for not talking. The food is delicious, better than any Italian food he’s ever had. Then again, he can’t even remember the last time he’s had any Italian food. Or any food that wasn’t part of an army issued MRE.

Sherlock reaches for his glass of wine and lifts his eyes from the table to John. “So, Johnathan –”

“Um, call me John, please.” He’d forgotten about the fake name he gave Sherlock in his email. Well, mostly fake. His name is John, but it’s just John, not Johnathan. And his last name isn’t Sacker, but he couldn’t risk giving Sherlock his real surname in case he was in any way familiar with the the disaster that struck the Northumberland Fusiliers about a year back.

“Right, John.” The corners of Sherlock’s eyes crinkle when he smiles at him. “That does suit you better.” He takes a sip of his wine and takes a minute to savour it before he speaks again. “How are you liking London so far?”

“I love this city,” John answers immediately. “I’ve lived here before, when I was much younger.” John starts to tell Sherlock about his days spend training at Bart’s, but stops himself. That might give too much away. Instead, he offers Sherlock a warm smile and reaches for his fork. “It hasn’t changed all that much. Still lively, still beautiful in its own way.”

“Yes, it is.” John can see his own adoration for the city reflected in the blue of Sherlock’s eyes. Or is it grey? Green?

Sherlock dominates the conversation from there, telling John story after story of the adventures he’s been up to in his short time on Earth. He’s only twenty-four years old, and already it seems like he’s done so much. He went to university at the age of fifteen, and Cambridge no less. He’s a classically trained violinist and a certified chemist, and he hasn’t even been alive for a quarter of a century.

Sherlock uses his hands when he speaks, sometimes gesticulating so wildly that the curl resting in the middle of his forehead shakes. It’s quite endearing, and very entertaining to watch. John’s focus is solely on Sherlock until he finally takes a sip of the wine that Sherlock ordered. In an instant all his attention is transferred to the smooth blend of blackberry, peppercorn, and a host of other delectable flavours. It’s like he’s drinking liquid velvet. John is certainly no wine connoisseur, but even with his unrefined palate he can tell this is an extremely fine wine.

“Christ, this is good.” He says, cutting Sherlock off in the middle of an anecdote about some man who tried to climb one of the Giza pyramids. Sherlock looks mildly peeved at having been interrupted, but John’s still too focused on the wine to be sorry. “This must have cost a fortune.” That brings a question to the forefront of John’s mind. “How on Earth are you managing to afford all of this?” John hates the idea of Sherlock spending his life savings on an evening out with his new flatmate, but the custom tailored suit he’s wearing makes John think this isn’t out of the ordinary for Sherlock.

“I broke into a bank about a year back and stole roughly eight million pounds,” Sherlock answers in a deadpan voice. His face is gravely serious, but his lips are twitching like he’s holding back a smile. There’s something about the way he looks that almost makes John believe he’s telling the truth, as wild as it is. Then he takes another sip of wine, thinks about it again, and can’t keep himself from laughing at the absurdity of it. Sherlock’s deep rumbling laughter joins John’s high pitched chuckles, and they spend a good few minutes laughing together before they’re able to return to their meal.

When they walk back to Baker Street after diner they’re so close to each other their arms brush with every step. Sherlock pulls a cigarette and lighter from his coat pocket. The flame briefly casts dancing shadows on Sherlock’s angular face and John can’t bring himself to look away, even after the bright flame has dimmed to a warm glow. As a doctor he’s always abhorred smoking, thought it to be a nasty habit, but there’s something about the way that white stick dangles from Sherlock’s lips that makes John reconsider his stance.

They part ways in the kitchen with a nod, and John heads upstairs. For the first time since he’s arrived in London, John’s mind is blank when his head hits the pillow. He closes his eyes with a smile on his face and drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

John spends the next few days job hunting. He finds a few openings, but nothing glamorous. A part-time position in a small hospital, an opening at a local surgery, he even applies for a position as a school nurse. He’s horrendously overqualified for all three, but he can’t use his actual CV, which he knows will hurt his chances of getting a job. Still, he’d rather remain unemployed with a fake CV than risk anyone discovering his true identity. Truthfully, he’s just glad he hadn’t been found out for using a name that isn’t his. He just hopes his savings will hold out long enough for him to secure a stable source of income. And by savings he means the decent amount of money he’d managed to get via a shady character who helped him get back to London after he left Afghanistan.

The first night John returns home after job hunting, Sherlock is sat at the kitchen table bent over a microscope. He says he’s in the middle of an experiment, and tells John that there’s a plate of curry waiting for him in the microwave. John takes the seat across from Sherlock and eats silently. He takes the time to observe Sherlock without the threat of being caught staring. Sherlock is far too engrossed in whatever is on that slide to pay John any attention.

His posture is stiff and John absently wonders how long he’s been sitting like that. Sherlock’s shirt sleeves are rolled and cuffed like they were the day John moved in. His shirt is pulled taut across his chest, the buttons straining against the fabric. John wants to know if Sherlock wears those tight shirts on purpose of if he just hasn’t been shopping in a while. He suspects it’s the former.

The next day when John enters the flat, Sherlock is sitting at the desk in the living room typing away on his laptop. He doesn’t look too busy, but John decides not to bother him anyway. He did say that’s where he does his work. Just because John has no work to do doesn’t mean he can interrupt someone who does. He grabs a book from one of the large bookcases in the room and settles down in his armchair to read a bit.

After a few moments he hears the sound of a laptop shutting and looks up to see Sherlock staring at him.

“I’m sure you’ll find something eventually,” he says. “Just give it time.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess.”

“Are you hungry? I’ve been wanting some paella.” John starts to say yes, but then he remembers that he still has no job, and that means he probably shouldn’t splurge on a night out. He bites his lip and stares down at the book in his hands.

“I…”

“If you’re about to say no because you can’t pay for your food then let me stop you right there. I’m paying until you get a steady source of income. I thought that was understood.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Nonsense. You can just pay me back when you get a job, if it will help your pride to do so.” Sherlock smiles at him then, a sort of half smile that shouldn’t look as good as it does on his face. John notices some slight dimpling at the corners of his mouth. He closes his book and stands to follow Sherlock down the stairs.

\---

After only a few days of searching, John manages to get an interview at a small clinic and proceeds to charm his way into a job. He returns to Baker Street with a smile on his face, mouth open and ready to ask Sherlock if he’d like to join him for a celebratory drink. The flat is empty, and John isn’t surprised. Sherlock told him he was often gone during the day. Not wanting his good mood to go to waste, however, John elects to venture out by himself. He finds a local watering hold and plops himself down in a seat at the bar. There’s a football game on, and John watches it with mild interest while he sips his drink. Just as he’s raising the glass to his lips to finish it off, the ground starts shaking and John hears startled shouts from around the room.

The image on the television changes from the game to a news broadcast, and John can’t believe what he sees. There’s a building on fire. That’s horrible, yes, but easy enough to wrap his head around. Fires happen all the time, as unfortunate as they are. What John _doesn’t_ understand is the figure he sees floating just above the roof. He blinks his eyes, and the figure is gone. The feed cuts to another angle and John sees them again, standing several metres away from the burning building. John watches with wide eyes and a slackened jaw as the figure raises their hands and waves them, and the building collapses.

John watches the foundation buckle, some bricks crumbling into dust while others just topple over each other as they plummet to the earth below. A cloud of dust engulfs the building and the figure, and though the broadcast continues there’s nothing more to be seen. When everything settles all that’s left is a pile of rubble and a crowd of terrified civilians. The mysterious figure is gone.

John has never seen anything like this before in his life. Well, nothing _exactly_ like this. The only time he’s seen destruction of such magnitude without a logical explanation was … well … that disaster in Afghanistan. That is a day John refuses to think about too much. He wonders if the man he’d seen on the television is like him somehow.

John’s hand is warm where it rests against his knee. It’s a sign he’s getting worked up and he needs to get home fast, lest something terrible happen. He hurries back to Baker Street and is relieved to find the flat empty. He’s not sure what he would have done had Sherlock been there, what he would have said if Sherlock asked him why he looked so upset.

He leans against his closed bedroom door and wills his breathing and heart rate to normalise. He opts to take a quick kip, to try and shut the world out for a little while. He hadn’t slept that well the previous night anyway, so he figures it’ll do him some good to catch up. It takes him a moment to calm down enough to sleep, but he does eventually, and when he wakes he feels much better. He ventures downstairs and finds Sherlock watching Downton Abbey. John stands beside his armchair and raises an eyebrow.

“I’m just trying to see how many historical inaccuracies I can find,” Sherlock says when he catches the look John give him.

“Right,” John says before taking a seat in his own armchair. John turns in his seat, ready to tease Sherlock some more, when he notices a cut above his right eyebrow. “What happened?”

“Hm? Oh, this?” Sherlock waves a hand in the air. “Not important.”

“Where’s the first aid kit?”

“Above the sink. Why –”

“Stay right there.” John goes into the kitchen to wash his hands and grab what he needs, then kneels in front of Sherlock, who watches him with curious eyes while he treats the injury. He flinches when John applies the antiseptic.

“Congratulations on the new job.”

“How did you know? What, did you read my mind?”

“No, I can’t read your mind John, but I can read you.”

“What’s that mean?” John asks, leaning back to raise an eyebrow at Sherlock, who shrugs and looks away.

“This morning at breakfast you were antsy, dressed in a nicer shirt than usual, and you had two cups of coffee instead of just one. You didn’t sleep well last night because you were too nervous for your job interview today. You’ve been home long enough to have taken a rather lengthy nap, which means you didn’t spend much time out of the house. If the interview hadn’t gone well you probably would have stayed out longer picking up more applications, but you didn’t need to because they offered you the job and you accepted. The crease between your eyebrows isn’t as prominent, your shoulders slightly less tense than usual. You’re relaxed because you’ve secured a source of income. You’ve also had a drink at some point today. I can assume you either took yourself out to celebrate or someone took you out. Now, even though you mentioned the fact that you used to live in London you have yet to mention any friends here. You could have just gone out for a drink by yourself, but you’re a social creature so being alone at a bar would have upset you. However, you didn’t mind today because you were celebrating something, something important enough to not be dulled by the fact that you were out alone. Conclusion: new job.”

“That’s amazing.”

Sherlock freezes. When John looks down at him he’s blinking rapidly like he’s trying and failing to process John’s words. “You really think that?” he asks.

John nods his head, then closes the kit and goes to put it back in his place. Sherlock follows him into the kitchen. “That’s not the response I usually get after a deduction.” There’s an almost smile on his lips, but his eyes are sad, and John decides that he doesn’t want to know what sort of reaction Sherlock’s grown accustomed to.

Sherlock straightens himself up when his moment of reflection passes. “Let’s go out for a proper celebration now. There’s a lovely Indian place that just opened up on Broadwick Street.” He places a hand at the small of John’s back and guides him to where their coats are hanging.

When they arrive at the restaurant, they’re seated by a large window at the front of the restaurant. John wonders if Sherlock chooses window seats on purpose, if he likes people watching as much as John. He does seem to have a knack for reading people. Perhaps he learned it over years of staring out of windows.

The food is heavenly. Sherlock really has an eye for great restaurants. John adds that to the ever-growing list of ways Sherlock continues to amaze him.

“So tell me about this new job of yours,” Sherlock says during a lull in their conversation.

John shrugs. “It’s nothing special, just working at a clinic over in Southwark.”

Sherlock stabs his fork into his chicken masala. “You must be excited to get back to being a doctor.” He brings a bit up to his lips, but his hand hovers just in front of his mouth. “I could tell earlier how much you enjoyed treating my little cut. I can only imagine how much happier you’ll be when you’re helping people on a regular basis.”

“Speaking of the cut, where did you get that?” John points to Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock eats the piece of chicken and takes his time chewing. “Unimportant.”

“Not to me.” Sherlock doesn’t look at him. “What do you get up to during the day, anyway? What is your job?” John can’t believe he’s been living with Sherlock for about a week now and still doesn’t know this basic piece of information.

When Sherlock realises that John isn’t going to drop the subject, he sighs and rests his fork on his plate. “Well, it’s not really a job. More like a hobby of mine, or rather hobbies. You see, I like to run experiments in my free time. That’s what I spend the majority of my time doing.” John recalls seeing various test tubes on the kitchen table along with Sherlock’s microscope, but Sherlock is out of the house way too often for that to be where he conducts the majority of his experiments.

“Do you have a lab somewhere that you work in?”

“Yes. I managed to acquire it though a bit of persuasion and a rather large … donation.” Sherlock takes a sip of his water. “When I’m not working on experiments … I’m … well it’s a bit difficult to explain.”

“Does it have something to do with those papers you’ve got cluttering up the flat?” John had noticed them the first day they’d met, when he came to see the flat. The desk is often covered with newspapers, police reports, and the like, with some words circled and notes scribbled in the margins. Sherlock nods his head.

“Yes. To put it simply, I solve crimes.” Sherlock’s meal is essentially forgotten now, his attention focused solely on John. His eyes are burning when they lock onto his. “I notice patterns in the stories they print in the papers. I make connections based on what evidence I can find.”

“And what do you do once you’ve solved the crime?”

“Well, at first I tried going to Scotland Yard an telling them who they needed to arrest, but for some reason they never listened to me.”

“Some random bloke bursting in out of nowhere claiming to have solved some incredibly tough case they have yet to make much leeway on? Can’t imagine why they wouldn’t believe you.”

Sherlock shoots him a look, but John sees the smile hidden behind the narrowed eyes and straight mouth. “Yes, well, I’ve taken to sending in anonymous tips. I still don’t understand why they’d sooner listen to an anonymous citizen over someone whose face they can actually see, but that’s London’s finest for you.” The two of them share a laugh, and John reaches for his wine. Sherlock’s eyes are soft when they meet his over the rim of his own glass.

“How long have you lived in London?” John asks, because he wants to know more about Sherlock and can’t think of anything else to talk about.

“Not very long, actually. A little over a year.” He stares at something just past John’s head. “I’ve moved around quite a lot in my life. Here has been the first time I’ve ever felt anything close to settled.”

John is faintly aware of the streetlights turning on outside, and the soft patter of rain hitting the window beside their table. He’ll be upset that he didn’t bring an umbrella later. For now, Sherlock has his full attention.

“I was born and raised in Bath. I moved to Cambridge for university, and after graduating I spent a short time travelling the country, never staying in one place for more than a few months at a time. I spent a brief amount of time in Ireland before returning to England. I lived in Bedford, Edinburgh, and then Oxford for a short while before moving here.”

“What made you settle down here?”

Sherlock gives a wistful sigh and his eyes take on a faraway look. “There’s just no comparison to the beauty of London. The thrumming pulse beneath the dreary surface. The way the city itself seems to breathe … I hadn’t been able to find that anywhere else.”

John smiles. “Yeah.” He’d fallen in love with London the minute he’d arrived, for the same reason. He can still remember what it felt like stepping out of Heathrow with a pair of suitcases in his hands and an eager smile on his face. To him London had been so much more than a city; It was a chance to better himself, a way to start over. In London he didn’t have to think about what transpired in his youth, or the fact that he had no friends growing up. He was on his way to becoming a doctor, to becoming someone important who people would want to associate with. It was why John hadn’t hesitated to return after his accident. He missed this place terribly while he was gone.

Perhaps that’s why he was so disturbed by what he’d seen earlier that day. He’d spent countless hours in Afghanistan dreaming of his return to the peaceful city of London, and now he’s come back to find it’s being terrorised by some villain of sorts.

“John, what is it? You seem ill all of a sudden.”

Sherlock’s gaze is so intense John starts to sweat. He averts his eyes and tries to avoid answering by taking a bite of his rice. It’s gone cold. He clears his throat. “I just … remembered something I saw earlier today. At least I think I saw something. I’m not entirely convinced it wasn’t just my eyes playing tricks on me.”

“What do you think you saw?”

“Promise you won’t call me mad?”

“I promise no such thing.” Sherlock smirks at him. John rolls his eyes and tries to hide the smile tugging at his lips.

“Well, when I was out having a drink earlier today I saw this news broadcast. I saw a building destroyed. I watched it collapse and …” Sherlock sits expectantly, waiting for John to continue. “I thought I saw a person.” Sherlock’s eyes light up.

“Ah, I think you’re referring to Maestro.”

“Hm?”

“He’s the local villain around here.” Sherlock’s eyes are sparkling when he says this. John senses a hint of admiration. For what, he can’t be sure. Surely no one would admire a villain. Certainly Sherlock wouldn’t think so highly of a person who spends their time destroying the city he loves.

It takes John a moment to process the new information. It’s true, then. He didn’t experience a psychotic episode in that pub. Someone else exists who is potentially like him, only they’ve embraced their destructive powers where John has spent his entire life trying to hide his. It’s incredibly difficult for him to wrap his head around.

“A villain named Maestro …” John scoffs. “I think Monster would have been a better title to give him.”

Sherlock bristles at his comment. “That seems a bit harsh.”

“He levelled a building.”

“There were no people inside.”

“Why are you defending him?”

“Someone has to.” There’s an edge to Sherlock’s voice John hasn’t heard before and it’s kind of frightening. Sherlock freezes, sits back in his seat, and folds his hands on top of the table. “Forgive me,” he says, though he doesn’t really sound all that sorry. “I enjoy debating. I like to play the devil’s advocate. Sometimes I get carried away.”

They finish their dinner in silence. The rain picks up over the course of time it takes them to do so, and by the time their bill arrives it’s a full blown thunderstorm outside. They’re able to find a cab easily enough, but in the time it takes them to exit the vehicle and run inside they both end up soaked.

John is shivering but his hands are incredibly warm. He’s trying hard not to think about it and failing miserably. Thoughts of Maestro and the destruction he’d seen earlier that day are too strong in his mind. It was raining the day of his accident. John remembers it clearly. He can still feel the thunder rumbling in his chest, the bright flashes of lightning illuminating the faces of those around him. Those incredibly pale faces.

“Are you alright John?” Sherlock’s worried voice asks when they’ve reached the top of the stairs. John realises his hands are shaking far more than they would be if he were just cold. He clenches them into fists by his sides and shuts his eyes tightly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re nowhere close to fine.”

“It’s just the lighting. I’m not too fond of it.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment. John opens his eyes and looks up. Sherlock is watching him with an odd smile, though he does look slightly concerned. “You’re afraid.”

“No,” John answers too quickly. Sherlock covers his smile with his hand, and gestures for John to go upstairs to his room.

“Go change out of those wet clothes and come back down.”

John does as he’s told, and when he returns downstairs wearing a long sleeved shirt and a pair of sweatpants, Sherlock is waiting for him with a cup of tea in his hands and a small smile. He instructs John to sit down and hands him the mug. Sherlock then fetches a blanket from his room that he drapes around John’s shoulders. He steps back and surveys him. “Is there anything else you’d like?”

“Hmm?” is all John can manage with his mouth full of tea.

Sherlock starts counting on his fingers. “Warm blanket, hot tea, comforting presence of a friend …” He pauses and shrugs. “When I’m distressed sometimes I like to play the violin, but other than that I don’t know what –”

“Will you play for me?” John has seen the case resting on the coffee table, the desk, the kitchen counter, but he’s never seen the instrument, nor has he seen Sherlock play and he’s dreadfully curious. He feels about five years old looking up at Sherlock from the cocoon of his blanket, cradling the warm mug in his hands. He has no idea if the violin would be soothing, or if he would even be able to hear it over the thunder, but John wants to hear Sherlock play. He can only imagine the sort of violinist he is after nearly two decades of experience. John’s mouth goes dry thinking about it, so he takes another sip of tea.

Sherlock nods his head, then goes to retrieve his violin from his room. John watches him run his fingers along the polished wood, the way he caresses the instrument before bringing it to rest on his shoulder. His eyes meet John’s briefly before he looks down at the bow in his hands. “Any requests?”

John waits until Sherlock looks at him again to shake his head. Sherlock dips his head in a small nod, then raises the bow, and plays.

John loses track of how long he sits there listening to Sherlock play song after song, never seeming to tire. He’s beautiful when he plays. Or, _it’s_ beautiful. The music is. Sherlock uses the storm to his advantage, timing crescendos with bright flashes of light and the thunder almost as a drum to accentuate the rhythm of the music. It’s brilliant. Sherlock is brilliant.

John wakes up with another blanket thrown over him, his mug resting on the floor by his feet.

\---

John decides to ask around at work to try and gather any information he can on Maestro, but every time he mentions his name he sees the way their faces turn pale. Their voices tremble when they tell him of ruined buildings, of lives forever changed, of destruction no one thought could possibly be done by one being. Many refuse to even say the name Maestro, instead referring to him as “that guy” or even just “him”. It’s like they’re all afraid he might show up if they say his name too loud, or at all. There are a few theories floating around: that he’s an alien, a science experiment gone wrong, or just some freak who tricked everyone into thinking he’s got superpowers. No one seems to be able to agree on anything other than the fact that the city is terrified of him.

Sherlock ends up being John’s primary source of information on all things Maestro. He’s more than willing to tell John all he knows, which it turns out is quite a lot. It’s Sherlock who tells John just what powers Maestro actually has: levitation, teleportation, mind manipulation, telekinesis.

“Among a host of others, most likely,” Sherlock continues with a wave of his hand. “They say he can play your mind like a violin. That’s why they call him Maestro.” Sherlock beams at John like he came up with the title himself, and he might have. There are a few message boards dedicated to the supervillain. John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock had an account and had made the suggestion for the name.

The more John learns about Maestro, the more his curiosity grows. He spends countless hours searching the web for more articles to read, more videos to watch. Maestro moves with the elegance and poise of a ballet dancer, his lithe body moving in ways that shouldn’t be possible. John is transfixed even by the grainy, pixelated footage he finds online.

Sherlock catches him one afternoon watching a video on YouTube of Maestro that someone took with their phone. It’s shaky and the quality isn’t that good, but at this point John is willing to look at anything with Maestro in it.

“I sense an obsession forming,” Sherlock remarks, leaning over John’s shoulder to watch the video himself.

“Like you’ve got room to talk. I found this in the internet history.”

“That’s your computer, John.”

“I know you use it when I’m not around.” John turns around, sees Sherlock’s reddening face, and grins. Sherlock stands up straight and sniffs.

“I was coming out here to ask if you’d like to accompany me on a walk.”

John is out of his seat before Sherlock can finish asking. “I’d love to.”

They go for a stroll down to Regent’s Park and sit on a bench to watch people pass by. Sherlock points out what he can, makes deductions about the lives of those around them, and John interjects with the occasional word of praise that causes Sherlock’s cheeks to turn pink. The air is cold around them, but John is incredibly warm sitting beside Sherlock. He looks up at Sherlock, whose eyes are trained on a little girl playing with her dog not far from where they’re sitting. His face is still red, though it might be from the cold now. His windblown hair obscures part of his face, but he makes no motion to move it out of his eyes. John resists the urge to do it for him.

Almost as if he’d heard his thoughts, Sherlock turns to look at him and gives him a small smile. John notes the way the left side of his mouth pulls up higher than the right, and feels a small fluttering in his stomach.

John has never had any experience with relationships of any kind before. When he was only eight years old he got into a fight with a boy on the playground over whose turn it was to ride the swings. The boy had kicked dirt onto his shoes and John responded by swinging out and punching him in the nose. He knew he was strong for his age, but he’d had no idea just what damage he was capable of until he saw the blood spurting from the poor kid’s face and the bruises already beginning to form. With one poorly executed punch John had broken his nose and sent him to the hospital. The kid had to get reconstructive surgery, and John was suspended for two weeks.

By the time he returned, word about ‘Psycho Watson’ had spread and his classmates wouldn’t go near him. It was so hard for him to find a place to sit in the cafeteria, let alone someone to sit with in class or to spend time with after school, forget about ever dating anyone. He had no friends growing up, his only interaction with them being when he walked through a crowded hallway and watched everyone move aside to get away from him. For years the incident on the playground haunted him. One fight and he’d been branded a monster.

He dedicated all of his free time to his studies, and decided to become a doctor. He wanted to prove to everyone, and to himself, that he could help people, not hurt them. He grew accustomed to being alone, and it didn’t bother him as much as it did when he was younger. At least, he tried to tell himself that. There were still times he’d desperately wished for even one friend.

He thinks he’s found that in Sherlock. They’ve only known each other for a few weeks but there’s already a connection that exists between them that John has never experienced before. From the way Sherlock had spoken when they first met, John had been expecting him to be callous, extremely private and closed off, and incredibly difficult to live with. What he discovered instead was that Sherlock was warm and caring when he wanted to be, and spent many hours lounging on the sofa in the sitting room when John was there. It’s clear that Sherlock is lacking in the friend department as well. He never mentions going out with friends, never receives any texts or invitations to go out anywhere. As a result, the two of them spend most of their time at home together. Even when they don’t speak, John is content to sit in the familiar silence, finding solace in the company of another lonely soul.

But every now and then Sherlock turns his head and their eyes meet, and he gives John that half smile that seems to only be reserved for him, and John’s heart begins to stutter and his palms get clammy, and he knows he’s heading into dangerous territory but he can’t help it. There’s something about Sherlock, something about the way he looks at John like he’s … normal.

But John knows he isn’t just a regular person. He’s special. He can do what ordinary men cannot. He can withstand extreme conditions and come out unscathed. He can destroy entire squadrons without trying and he can lift more than humanely possible and he knows it. He doesn’t know all that he’s capable of, though. He’s been trying to hide his special abilities his entire life. It’s time he stopped hiding. London needs a hero, and that hero should be him.

\---

The first step to becoming a superhero is deciding on a name. Something for the reporters to shout, for curious citizens to type into online search engines, something to be remembered by long after he’s gone. There is so much riding on something most people believe to be so insignificant.

Anything with ‘John’ in it is out of the question. While it’s a common enough name, it’s not a name for a superhero. For a moment John considers calling himself Captain Watson, but that can easily be linked to Captain Watson of the Northumberland Fusiliers, and he needs to keep that part of him buried.

Captain something would definitely work though. Captain sounds like someone with authority, someone in charge. But Captain What?

John hears Sherlock calling for him downstairs. John effectively ends his brainstorming session and rolls out of bed to go see what Sherlock wants. More than likely he wants John to fetch him something from the next room.

He finds Sherlock standing in the doorway holding a cardboard box. He holds it out to John. “This was sitting just outside the door.” John takes it from Sherlock’s hands, his fingers grazing Sherlock’s during the exchange.

“Do you know who dropped it off?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Mrs. Hudson has been out all day, as have I. You’ve only been home for a short time, and I’m guessing you didn’t see it earlier today, so the only logical assumption is that someone came while you were upstairs in your room, and dropped it off.”

John tucks the box under one arm and takes it up to his bedroom. He’s wary to open it at first, sits it on the foot of his bed and stares at it for a long while. He even goes downstairs and makes himself some tea as a distraction. He makes a cup for Sherlock, who wordlessly takes the cup from John. He takes a sip and finally offers John a smile in gratitude. John settles down in his chair across from Sherlock and picks up a book from where he’d left it on the floor several days prior. He starts to read, but his thoughts don’t remain on what is on the page for long.

Eventually he gives in to the curiosity and goes upstairs to open the box. Sherlock’s eyes follow John as long as he’s in the room. John never looks but he can feel his gaze hot on his back as he ascends the stairs.

John sits beside the box and places a hand on it. He turns the box over, as if that would somehow help him detect if there were a bomb or something equally as dangerous inside. When he finally opens the box he pulls out … a superhero suit. It’s red, white, and blue, with a union flag displayed across the chest. His blue ‘mask’ is more of a cap that covers every bit of his head but his eyes and mouth. John shoves the contents back into the box and hides it beneath his bed right before Sherlock appears in the doorway, one leg crossed over the other, and asks John if he’d like to go out for some Italian food. There’s no indication on his face that he knows John opened the box, or that he might have seen what’s in it.

John follows him down the stairs and out of the flat, his mind swimming. He’s almost on autopilot as he follows Sherlock outside and into the back of a cab. Sherlock’s phone pings, surprising even him. He pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen, then frowns and shoves it back into his coat.

“Who’s that?”

“My brother,” Sherlock says calmly, his eyes focused on something just outside the cab window.

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“I don’t like to talk about him.”

“Bad relationship then? I get that.” Sherlock turns and raises an eyebrow at him. John clears his throat. “I have a sister. We never really got on that well as kids and as adults, well…” John trails off and tears his eyes away from Sherlock’s face. He can’t risk divulging too much, though there’s something about the way Sherlock looks at him that makes him want to spill every secret he has. He knows his borderline alcoholic baby sister isn’t the best thing to talk about, so he steers their conversation down a safer path. “Why Italian?”

“You must get cravings every now and then,” is Sherlock’s answer. They don’t speak again until they reach the restaurant.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Sherlock says quietly. He keeps his eyes on the menu he’s not really reading, and John knows it’s because he doesn’t want to meet John’s eye. He’s done that a fair amount of times on the occasions they go out.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

“Yes, and I hate it.”

John laughs at the face Sherlock makes. Sherlock’s eyes snap to him and there’s a spark of _something_ that makes the laughter die in John’s throat. Sherlock lowers his eyes to the menu again.

With Sherlock otherwise occupied, John is left alone with his thoughts until their waiter arrives. He thinks about the suit, and about the flag on the front of it. It makes sense for him. He’s only decided to embrace his powers for the sake of London, and possibly for all of Britain if need be. Captain … Britain. Captain Britannica. Yes, Captain Britannica. John imagines himself giving that name, that title to a waiting reporter and feels pride swelling in his belly.

Sherlock’s foot nudges his under the table. He looks up, and realises there is a young man standing beside the table, notepad in hand, pen poised to write. John hasn’t even decided on what he wants. He stares back at Sherlock, silently begging for help.

“He’ll have the Chicken Tetrazzini,” Sherlock says, his eyes never leaving John’s. He smiles when he speaks, and John can’t help but to smile back.

\---

It will be another week before John takes out the suit again, and another few days before he actually tries it on. When he unfolds the garment, a small folded piece of paper flutters to the floor. On it is written in a fancy script: _‘The cape doubles as an invisibility cloak. To aid in your travels to and from fights’._

When John tries on the suit, he can barely stand to look at himself in the mirror. It leaves very little to the imagination, hugging every single curve John has. He sighs and takes another look at himself in the mirror. Is this what a hero looks like? What a hero is _supposed_ to look like? John feels like he’s getting in way over his head and he hasn’t even done anything yet. He takes off the suit and hides it under his bed. He goes downstairs to find Sherlock draped across the sofa. He’s holding his violin but not playing it, the bow resting on his stomach.

“Bored,” he moans. “So _bored_.”

“Go take a walk. That’s what I do when I start to go stir crazy.” Sherlock lifts his head just high enough to give John a derisive look, then lowers it back to rest on the arm of the couch.

“Boring.”

“You go on walks all the time. Surely that means you like them.”

“I like going for walks when you come along.”

Sherlock’s admission causes something to flutter in John’s chest. He’s glad to know Sherlock genuinely enjoys spending time with him as much as he likes spending time with Sherlock. When he realises he’s staring at Sherlock with an idiotic grin on his face he clears his throat and stands to go into the kitchen.

“Why don’t you go start on some new experiment?” he shouts over his shoulder. “Is your lab not open today?” John has yet to figure out just what sort of hours Sherlock “works”. It’s a Friday afternoon. Perhaps the lab closes early on Fridays like the clinic John works at does. Sherlock is often at the flat all day on Friday. Maybe it isn’t open at all.

Sherlock groans just loud enough to be annoying. John grits his teeth. “Well whatever you do, would you stop doing that?”

Sherlock glares at him, then lets out a long-suffering sigh. John pinches the bridge of his nose. Sherlock sits up on the couch and deposits the violin in the case resting on the coffee table before getting up and heading back to his room.

John remains in the sitting room and watches some television for a while. It is during an episode of Luther that he hears the rumbling. His heart skips a beat. Could it be?

The rumbling grows louder. John’s heart rate kicks up about five notches and he dashes up to his room to retrieve his suit. John has yet to test out his ‘invisibility cloak’, but he figures now is as good a time as any. He changes into the suit and pulls the cape tightly around himself. He doesn’t bother telling Sherlock he’s leaving, mostly because he doesn’t know how to explain where he’s heading or why he’s wearing what he is but partly because he’s sure Sherlock won’t even notice his absence anyway. John sucks in a breath and opens the door just a crack. He doesn’t see anyone walking by, so he opens it enough to slip out onto the street, making sure to keep his cape wrapped around himself. He turns and heads in the direction of the sounds of destruction he hears.

When he gets close enough he lets the cape fall. He feels incredibly exposed and self-conscious in the snug suit, but he marches on. The ground shakes beneath his unsteady feet as he walks, but he doesn’t turn back. London needs him, and he’s more than ready to help out.

Maestro is lounging in the centre of a crater he’s made in the middle of the road. He’s using a piece of asphalt as a pillow, his arm bent and resting beneath his head. He’s twirling a strand of hair around the finger of his other hand. His coat, which honestly looks more like a cape than anything, is spread out beneath him. His chest rises and falls slowly with calm breaths, the tight black material of his suit stretching to accommodate the movement. John has seen many pictures of him but not one did him any justice. The sight before John is breath-taking. It isn’t right. Evil shouldn’t look this good.

John takes a few steps closer and calls out to him.

“Hey!”

Maestro’s head snaps up and John finds himself held captive by a pair of stunning grey eyes. The force of Maestro’s gaze is enough to stop John in his tracks.

“Hello…” Maestro says, pulling himself up to a sitting position. His accent is overly posh, his voice deep and grating, yet somehow smooth and sweet like Brazilian coffee. His eyes rake over John, taking in every detail they can. John feels horrendously exposed. It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts before he can speak. Maestro sits watching him the entire time, arms resting on his knees, a grin on his face. “What is your name, sir?”

“I’m … Captain Britannica.”

“Are you?” Maestro asks with a quirked eyebrow. “You don’t sound too sure.”

John’s hand clenches at his side and he speaks through gritted teeth. “Well, maybe I’ll just let my actions speak for me.”

By now Maestro is standing, his hip cocked to the side and his hand resting on it. He creates an artistic silhouette, with his trenchcoat blowing in the gentle breeze. His wild curls tumble down over his mask and graze his shoulders. It’s almost like his hair is another cape in the way it shrouds his face. All John can really see is part of one eye and Maestro’s bottom lip.

He takes a slow step towards John. “Look, if this is going to be a thing, I’m going to need you to work on your snappy comebacks.”

John crouches into a ready battle stance and waits for Maestro to approach him. “This isn’t going to be a regular thing, because your tirade ends today.”

Maestro’s eyes widen when he sees the pale yellow glow emitting from John’s hands, and is audibly amused when he shrugs and says “Better.”

There’s an initial sting when the energy beam leaves John’s outstretched palm, followed by a comfortable warm feeling that spreads up his arm and throughout his chest. Maestro dodges the attack with a textbook perfect backflip and lands on one knee. He grins at John, his smile widening the longer he looks at him.

“Oh,” he says, “this is going to be fun.”

John lunges forward and tries to grab him, but ends up reaching at thin air. He turns around and Maestro is standing behind him, one hand raised in a mocking wave. John growls, and sends out another attack that Maestro dodges effortlessly before counterattacking. He flings an arm out, his hand outstretched, and a cement block rises from the ground. John moves just in time for it to crash into the wall behind him and not his chest.

“Impressive.” Maestro remarks. The comment only serves to anger John. He growls and charges again and again, like a stampeding bull running around an ever-teleporting Maestro. He just wants to get his hands on him and show him he’s a worthy opponent. He gives it his all, but Maestro matches him blow for blow. John’s attacks are wild and uncoordinated. Maestro is clearly the more experienced of the two.

John is almost hit by a flying piece of building and a startled gasp alerts him to the small crowd of onlookers they’ve attracted. They’re peeking out from around the corners of buildings and out of windows at the spectacle. John now has even more motivation to win this. He only wishes he knew how to.

He grabs a large chunk of asphalt and hurls it in Maestro’s direction. John is almost certain he at least clips him, but Maestro looks unharmed. Nothing that John tries is working. Maestro is simply too fast. He isn’t staying still long enough for John to even get a proper look at him. All the pictures and videos he’s watched and he still has no clue what Maestro actually looks like. Seeing him in person isn’t helping one bit.  John can only stand helpless and watch as each of his attacks fails to hit their target. It isn’t fair. How is one supposed to aim at a target that teleports?

“Clearly this is getting us nowhere,” Maestro comments, sending another attack John’s way even as he dodges one John sends towards him. “How about we just call a truce?”

“Never.” John sucks in a breath, and channels all his energy and concentration into creating the strongest beam he can. He makes a show like he’s about to attack, and when Maestro teleports he spins around to face him and releases the energy. Maestro clearly hadn’t been expecting this, and the beam knocks him back into a brick wall. He collapses onto the ground, and John stares in horror at the crumpled pile of man.

He’s done it again.

He’d meant to stop Maestro, and he knew that hurting him was a possibility, but he didn’t want to seriously injure him. Villain or not, he’s still a man, and John had hoped his days of senseless violence were behind him. He really should have thought this through more. He rushes over to Maestro and kneels down beside him. He’s curled in on himself, not moving, but he’s still breathing. John breathes out a sigh of relief that he has not killed this man. He isn’t sure if his psyche can handle another death at the cause of his hands.

Maestro reaches up to fix his mask and shoves John away from him. John takes a step towards him, and watches him vanish in an instant. When John turns around this time, Maestro isn’t standing behind him. He’s actually gone. John stands up straight and tries to figure out what to do next. He remembers the people who had been watching and begins to look for them. He finds a small crowd of six people hovering several metres away. He sees several children, an older gentleman, and a woman with short brown hair all smiling at him.

“That was amazing,” the young woman says when he approaches the crowd. The children nod their heads enthusiastically and the old man reaches out a withered hand to pat John on the shoulder.

John knows he’s blushing. “Oh, it was nothing really.”

“No, you don’t understand. Not only were you brave enough to take him on, but you _beat_ him.” She smiles brightly at him. “Thank you.”

John clears his throat and tries to give what he believes is a superhero’s smile. “Well, I’m happy to have helped.”

John gives the crowd a small wave, then pulls his cape around himself. He hears their astonished gasps, and smiles to himself. He turns and runs away, trying to keep his footsteps light. He feels silly, sprinting away holding a cape over his head, but he doesn’t allow himself to feel too embarrassed because no one can see him.

Sherlock is still in his room when John arrives, and it’s probably for the better. John is still riled up from his match with Maestro and it’s best he isn’t seen in such a state. His palms are still warm, his face still flushed. It’s obvious he’s been up to something, and he doesn’t want to risk being questioned by Sherlock. He can’t lie to him, but he knows he also can’t tell him the truth.

After he’s showered and changed, John heads downstairs to make dinner. He makes enough for two despite the fact that he’s not certain Sherlock will leave his room before the day is over.

He’s just finishing up with the meal when he hears footsteps approaching. Sherlock enters the kitchen wearing nothing but a dressing gown and pair of pyjama pants. He’s unusually quiet, and stands back from John a while, simply observing him. After several long moments Sherlock tears his eyes away from John’s, and finally notices the spread on the table. “What’s this?”

“It’s called food.”

John gives Sherlock an easy smile, and he sees Sherlock’s face soften a bit before he takes a seat. They eat in relative silence, Sherlock’s eyes either on his plate or on John’s face. By now, he’s grown used to Sherlock’s lingering glances, but this is something different. Sherlock is perched on his seat in an awkward position, his arm too stiff when he lifts his fork to his mouth. When he looks at John his gaze is questioning, like he’s looking at a puzzle rather than at a person.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” John asks him. His heart is thrumming in his chest at this point from the increased scrutiny. He wants to know what he’s done to make Sherlock look at him like that, so he can do it again.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment longer before shaking his head and turning his attention back to his plate. “Nothing, John.” He pushes his food around but doesn’t actually make an effort to eat. “You just continue to amaze me.”


	2. Call Me A Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [helloitslbo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/helloitslbo) and [superblue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/superblue) for beta'ing and [teaandcakes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandcakes) for britpicking!

It’s been three weeks since his first battle with Maestro and the tabloids are still going crazy with the news that a superhero has finally come to challenge the villain. Blurry pictures and shaky videos are broadcast on every news network, and every headline asks the same questions: Is Maestro gone for good? Who is this mystery hero that’s responsible for his disappearance?

It comes up in nearly every conversation John has at work with his patients and colleagues. It seems to be the only thing anyone in London can or wants to talk about.

Sherlock remains silent on the issue.

“So, what do you think about all this Maestro business?” John asks over a cup of coffee one chilly December evening. He watches Sherlock carefully for any reaction, but his face is resolutely blank. John prods a bit further. “Surely you must be missing him.”

“I’m sure he’ll be back,” is all Sherlock says.

John decides not to press the issue any more and instead heads out to do some Christmas shopping. It’s been a while since John has had to concern himself with buying presents for anyone, but he wants to get something for Sherlock, even if it’s just a pair of socks. He just misses the idea of watching someone unwrap a gift he’s purchased with his own money. He misses the feeling of anxious anticipation while he waits for their response. Plus, he thinks of Sherlock as a friend. He wants to show him he’s appreciated and that John sees him as more than the person who pays the other half of the rent.

In the end he settles for a nice pair of black leather gloves. They’re a bit pricey, but Sherlock probably wouldn’t wear them otherwise, the posh bastard. Besides it’s Christmas, and John’s allowed to spend a little extra money on the only gift he’s buying that year. He hides them in the pocket of his coat when he gets back to Baker Street. Sherlock is perched in his chair watching something on television, but the minute John steps inside the room, Sherlock seems to forget all about the program. The look he gives John tells him he knows that he’s hiding something. He doesn’t seem to know just what, though, and John takes solace in knowing that Sherlock can’t read him nearly as well as he can every other human on Earth. John goes upstairs to wrap the present in some wrapping paper he’d bought a week prior while Sherlock was out doing God-knows-what.

The next week John spends an entire day decorating the flat with the cheap decorations he buys from Tesco. He sets up Christmas tree with no small amount of difficulty and places Sherlock’s present beneath it. When Sherlock returns in the afternoon and finds John struggling to put a star at the top of the tree, his eyes brighten and his face lights up.

“What’s this?” he asks, pulling off his coat and tossing it onto the sofa. He comes over to John and plucks the star from his hand, stretching to put the star in place. He leans close enough for John’s shoulder to be pressed against his side where his arm is still raised.

John clears his throat. “Um, thanks.”

Sherlock points to the box beneath the tree. “Is that for me?”

John stares down at the small box wrapped in shiny silver paper. He knows it probably looks silly sitting there all by itself, but John figured it was better than having a Christmas tree with no presents beneath it at all.

“Yeah, that’s yours.” John steps away from Sherlock and holds up a finger. “No opening it until Christmas day, too. And no trying to deduce what it is.” Sherlock doesn’t say anything and continues to stare at the box. John can’t tell whether Sherlock is pleased or perturbed to see the gift waiting for him. His expression is the kind of blank that means he’s trying to hide an emotion, not that he isn’t feeling one. It’s worrying in the mildest sense and almost frightening in another.

“Don’t think this means you have to get me anything, by the way,” John adds hastily. “It’s just something I saw while I was out.” He’s lying of course, but he really isn’t expecting Sherlock to get him anything. That part is true, and hopefully it gives some credibility to the entire lie.

Sherlock turns and goes to retrieve his coat from where he’d thrown it, but John sees the way his eyes remain fixed on the tree, or more specifically what’s beneath it. He almost looks afraid of the display, and John feels like he’s made some sort of mistake. Is Sherlock Jewish or some other religion that doesn’t celebrate the holiday? He doesn’t seem like the religious type, though. Perhaps he doesn’t celebrate Christmas for some other reason. Maybe some traumatic event happened on the day that ruined the holiday for him. John can’t shake the feeling that he’s done something terribly wrong when he lays his head down on his pillow that night, knowing that Sherlock is probably still downstairs with his eyes glued to that bloody present.

The next day when John returns home from work, there’s a second present sitting beneath the tree. John reads the looping script on the tag.

_‘To John – SH’_

\---

When Christmas finally comes, John walks downstairs to find Sherlock sitting cross-legged in front of the tree, still dressed in his pyjamas. He turns when he hears John come down the stairs and his eyes crinkle when he smiles at him.

“Happy Christmas, John.”

John blinks. He’s not fully awake yet, and certainly not awake enough to appreciate the sight of Sherlock with his eyes wide and bright, dimples at the corners of his mouth, sitting with his present in his lap. John feels something warm blossoming in his chest and manages to mumble something that sounds like “Happy Christmas” before turning to go into the kitchen to make coffee. He needs caffeine before he can fully indulge in the day’s festivities.

Sherlock appears at his side. “I made us some hot chocolate.” He reaches into the microwave and pulls out two mugs. John notes the marshmallows floating in the brown liquid, and inhales the sweet scent of chocolate when he takes his mug from Sherlock. It’s actually still hot, as if Sherlock had only made it moments ago.

John follows Sherlock back into the sitting room and they sit together on the floor between their two armchairs. Sherlock pulls his present back into his lap and John sips his cocoa while he watches him run a hand over the wrapping paper. Sherlock turns to him, and his eyes dart to John’s present and back.

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

“You first.”

Sherlock takes a sip from his mug and sets it aside on the floor. He meticulously tears the paper from the box and sets it aside in a semi-neat pile. He removes the lid from the box and peers inside at the gloves.

“They’re lovely.” His voice is soft, but pleased. “Thank you.” He lifts his eyes to smile at John, and for a moment he almost forgets that Sherlock’s thanks warrants a response.

“Ah, you’re welcome.” John takes another swig of his drink and reaches out to grab his present. It’s larger than the one he’d gotten for Sherlock, but it’s not incredibly heavy. John carefully unwraps the present, not ripping any paper, and extracts a white box. Inside are two jumpers. One is a lovely shade of army green and feels incredibly soft when John runs his hand over the material. He lifts it from the box and looks at the garment beneath it. What he sees is a brightly coloured Christmas jumper. He laughs and unfolds the jumper, and stares wide-eyed at the ostentatious display of Christmas trees and candy canes across the front of the garment. Sherlock’s eyes are sparkling when John looks at him. For a moment John is reminded of a puppy, or a young schoolboy who’s just handed his teacher a drawing he made and wants to show off.

“Ta, Sherlock,” John says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He can’t tell if Sherlock really expected him to like the Christmas jumper, and he doesn’t want to say anything for fear of hurting his feelings. He takes another moment to appreciate the look on Sherlock’s face, and gets an idea. He stands and heads up to his bedroom, where he pulls off the simple, cream-coloured jumper he’d been wearing and puts on the itchy Christmas jumper. The look on Sherlock’s face when he comes back downstairs is worth every bit of discomfort the jumper brings.

They spend the rest of the day holed up together inside the flat watching various Christmas specials on television. Chinese food arrives at one point, but John doesn’t really remember ordering it. They make a sort of spread on the coffee table and eat out of all the containers. Every now and then their elbows bump when they go for the same bite of chicken, or when one of them shifts to a more comfortable position. Sherlock starts out on one side of the sofa with a blanket pulled around his shoulders, and John sits on the opposite side with only his itchy jumper for warmth. Somehow over the course of the night they end up in the middle of the couch sharing Sherlock’s blanket. John relishes the feeling of Sherlock’s arm pressed against his, the warmth of his body heat, and he tries to keep his eyes open just a bit longer to make the moment last.

It’s the best Christmas he’s had in a while.

\---

One of John’s colleagues named Mike Stamford invites him to the New Year’s party he’s hosting while they sit in the break room chatting over a cup of coffee. John asks if he can bring a guest, to which Mike replies with a knowing smile and a cheeky “of course”. It’s obvious he’s expecting John to bring a date, and for some reason John doesn’t bother correcting him.

Sherlock is reluctant to go, but after some prodding from John he agrees to be his plus one. Mike is clearly shocked to see Sherlock standing beside John when he greets them at his door. That’s when John learns that Mike and Sherlock actually know each other. Sherlock won’t tell him how, though, which annoys him greatly. He’s used to Sherlock withholding information from him at this point, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

They spend the majority of the evening huddled together in a corner of the room nursing glasses of champagne and judging the horrendous dancing of the more intoxicated partygoers. Sherlock’s biting commentary has John nearly doubled over with laughter. John sees a couple of faces he recognises from work, and introduces Sherlock to them. There’s Phillip, an intern who often takes his break the same time John and Mike do, a doctor named Andrea whom John sometimes runs into during his shifts, and Cassandra, a receptionist who always greets him with a warm smile and a joke she gets off the internet. Cassandra seems to take a special interest in Sherlock, and John tries to tell himself he doesn’t care. Then Sherlock brushes off her advances in a polite, but firm, manner and John has to turn his head to hide his smile.

When they’re alone again, John watches Sherlock sip from his glass and survey the room. He’s not really looking at anything in particular, which is odd. Usually when they’re in a crowded place Sherlock likes to dissect the lives of those around them based on what he sees. John can always see the gears turning in his head, his focus laser sharp and his eyes bright. Sometimes he mouths words to himself, and John always tries to tell himself he’s only staring at Sherlock’s mouth to see if he can read his lips.

John watches Sherlock take another sip of his drink, watches the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “You seem to be at ease here.”

Sherlock takes another sip and watches John over the rim of his glass. “Should I not be?” he asks once he swallows. John’s eyes are once again on his throat.

“Well, you don’t really know anyone here, aside from me and Mike. Most people might be a bit uncomfortable.”

“Not me,” Sherlock answers. He clears his throat and swirls his drink around a bit as he talks, his eyes cast downwards. “Is it sad that I’m used to not fitting in?”

“Not at all.”

Sherlock looks up and smiles, his eyes crinkling. John’s belly feels warm and his face tingles and he tells himself it’s just the alcohol, but he’s only had two glasses at this point. Still, his head is fuzzy and it takes him a moment to gather his thoughts before he’s able to speak again.

“At least, I don’t think so. But I’m not really used to belonging anywhere myself, so what do I know?” He avoids eye contact, but he can feel Sherlock’s gaze burning a hole into the side of his head. The music shifts from easy listening to something with a thumping baseline that reverberates in John’s chest. He gets an idea and a smile breaks out on his face. He turns to place his drink on a nearby table and then looks up at Sherlock, who eyes him warily.

“Dance with me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on, just one dance. We can leave right after.”

“We could leave now.”

“No. Dance first. Just one.”

There’s a twinkle in Sherlock’s eye and a smile dancing at the corners of his lips, but he shakes his head no. John reaches out and plucks the champagne flute from his hand. He sets it on the table beside his before grabbing Sherlock’s forearm and dragging him away from the table. Sherlock allows John to pull him to the centre of the dance floor, but he stands still and only watches John dance, not daring to participate himself. John knows he probably looks like a right fool, bobbing his head in time to the music with a goofy grin on his face. Sherlock watches him with his arms folded across his chest, biting his lip to keep back a smile. John grabs his hands and tries to get him to move. Sherlock’s skin is soft and his hands are incredibly warm.

The music shifts to something slightly less upbeat, but John keeps dancing and keeps a firm grip on Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock sighs, then starts to bend his knees in time with the music and lets John swing his hands around. An odd smile breaks out on his face, like he’s trying not to smile but failing miserably. It’s a smile John’s only ever seen directed at him, and it’s a look he cherishes seeing on Sherlock’s face. He looks so much more handsome when he smiles. Given, he’s absolutely gorgeous even when glowering, but there’s something about his smile that really makes him attractive.

John is still musing about Sherlock’s beauty and various facial expressions when the song changes to something much slower. A glance around the room reveals only couples still on the dance floor, wrapped in each other’s arms and swaying in time to the music. John keeps a hold of Sherlock’s hands, but he’s not really sure what to do anymore. Sherlock pulls him closer until their chests are flush against each other’s and the movement draws them close enough for John to smell Sherlock. He detects a heady mixture of sweet smoke and spice that causes his head to swim. He’s faintly aware of Sherlock dipping his head down so that his lips are directly beside John’s ear.

“That was one dance. We can leave now.”

He steps away and the spell is broken. John’s mind is still cloudy, and his steps are clumsy as Sherlock takes his hand and leads him to where their coats are stored in the next room. They get dressed in silence, though it isn’t necessarily awkward. It’s not entirely friendly, though. There’s a strange sort of energy in the air, almost static, John can feel it filling every corner of the small room.

He watches Sherlock pull on his gloves, the ones John got him for Christmas. He leaves the room before John finishes zipping up his jacket and when John finds him again, he’s standing by the door with his hands in his pockets, looking perfectly serene. They don’t bother saying goodbye to Mike, they just step out into the crisp, biting air. Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on some faraway point as they walk. His face is illuminated by the moon and the occasional streetlight they pass under. He looks ethereal.

“We didn’t even stay for the countdown,” John says, the thought suddenly coming to him. He pulls out his mobile phone to check the time: 11:57. “Three minutes until the new year.” He sighs. “It’s a pity we didn’t get to celebrate properly.”

Sherlock digs around in his pockets and produces two party blowers. He hands one to John and their fingers brush when he reaches to take it. “My hero,” he says lifting his eyes to Sherlock’s.

“Don’t be silly John,” Sherlock says, looking away just before their eyes meet. “Heroes may exist in this world, but I most certainly am not one.”

“Just accept the damn compliment.”

Sherlock laughs at that. It’s a breathy sort of laugh that seems to take him by surprise. They share a smile and John feels the warmth from his stomach spreading up to his chest. He looks back down at his phone and waits for midnight. When the digital numbers change to 12:00 he nudges Sherlock in the side. “Happy New Year.”

Sherlock responds by placing his party blower in his mouth and blowing as hard as he can, and John giggles. He’s strolling through the streets of London with his madman of a flatmate, and as he stares up at Sherlock’s content expression, John decides there’s no other way he’d rather bring in the new year.

\---

The following Friday, John comes home from work in the afternoon to find Sherlock stretched out on the sofa with a plate sitting on his chest. The flat smells of buttercream icing and John’s mouth is watering before he finishes removing his jacket. He looks back to Sherlock to ask about there being cake in the flat and sees that Sherlock’s eyes are closed. John’s heart skips at beat at the sight of him with his curls tousled and mouth open in sleep. He looks incredibly young. John’s fingers itch to run through Sherlock’s hair. It must be so soft.

John tears his eyes away from Sherlock’s sleeping form and ventures into the kitchen. On the counter is a circular cake with a piece missing. Something is written across the top of it, and John has to step closer to read it.

_Happy Birthday Sherlock._

John peers back into the living room where Sherlock is now sitting upright and watching him intently.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

“It didn’t seem important to mention.” Sherlock still sounds a bit drowsy, though his eyes are alert when they meet John’s.

John steps further into the living room and shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I think it’s important.” Sherlock gives him a strange look, like he can’t imagine something so trivial as a birthday mattering to John. He’s obviously not in the custom of celebrating birthdays. John wonders if that’s because they’ve lost the novelty for him, or because he just didn’t grow up celebrating them. He hopes it’s the former. “And whoever made that cake for you thinks it’s important.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Mrs. Hudson loves any opportunity to use her oven.”

“Or maybe she just cares about you and wanted to show you that.” Once again Sherlock gives him that blank look it gives John a sinking feeling in his stomach. He walks over to Sherlock and sits down beside him on the little bit of sofa that Sherlock isn’t occupying. “Why don’t we go out to dinner? My treat.” He grins. “We can even have the staff sing happy birthday to you.” Sherlock looks mortified at that, and John wishes he had a camera to capture the expression on his face. “I’m just kidding. About the singing part that is. I’m serious about dinner.”

“There’s no need to make such a fuss.”

“Yes, there absolutely is.” John says, standing. “Now, come on. We won’t be going to an extremely fancy place, but you’ll probably want to wear something a bit nicer than your dressing gown.”

Sherlock doesn’t seem all that enthusiastic, but he does stand from the couch. He puts the dirty plate on the counter next to the cake before going into his room to change.

They spend the evening at a Thai restaurant at a table in a corner of the room. Though initially Sherlock complained about having to leave the flat and seemed incredibly uncomfortable during the cab ride to the restaurant, by the time their entrees are served he’s completely relaxed in his chair and there’s an easy smile on his face. He clinks his glass against John’s when he offers him a birthday toast and laughs when John threatens once again to alert the staff that it’s his birthday.

“You’d get free dessert.”

“I’ve already got dessert waiting for me at home.”

“Right.”

Sherlock finishes off his drink and orders another, while John observes the couple at the table next to him. Their hands are joined on top of the table and one man strokes the back of his partner’s hand with his thumb. John can’t tear his eyes away from them, at how happy they look together. Is that what it looks like to be in love?

Sherlock must notice John’s staring, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he rambles on about his latest experiment or the most recent episode of Downton Abbey, making sure to point out everything they got wrong, and John listens intently to every word he says. At the end of the night they return to Baker Street and each have two slices of cake, sitting in their armchairs in front of a cosy fire.

It’s around midnight when Sherlock stands from his chair. John follows him into the kitchen and washes their plates while Sherlock leans against the counter and watches.

“I, erm,” Sherlock begins, drawing John’s attention away from the dishes. He turns off the tap and gives Sherlock his full attention after drying his hands with the teatowel. “Thank you.”

John beams at him. “You’re welcome, Sherlock. Happy Birthday.”

Sherlock takes a step closer to him, and for a moment it seems like he might hug John, but he only places a hand on John’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze before turning and walking towards his room. He gives John one more glance over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.

\---

The next week when John walks into the break room at work, he expects to see Phillip, or perhaps Mike waiting for him, but instead he runs into a young woman with shortly cropped black hair. She doesn’t look familiar, but she smiles at John the way one might smile at an old friend.

“Hello, I assume you’re Doctor Sacker?” The fake name catches John off guard and it takes him a moment to remember that yes, that’s the name he’s going by.

“Erm, yes. Sorry for asking, but who are you?”

“Madeleine Kittrell. I’m a new nurse here.” She sticks her hand out for John to shake. Her nails are painted a burgundy colour almost the same shade as her lipstick. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor.”

John hears the extra emphasis she places on the word ‘doctor’, the way she lowers her voice just a bit, makes it sound almost sultry. She smiles up at him through her eyelashes, and John realises she’s flirting with him. He’s impressed with how easily he picks up on it and he gets a strange sort of rush when he realises. He hasn’t really been flirted with in … well, in ages. The last instance he remembered was back in Afghanistan, with a man named Hawkes. John never learned his first name, come to think of it. He and John weren’t necessarily friends per se, but they were a bit friendlier than mere acquaintances. They slept beside each other every night, and that was when self-exploration and existential debates took place between comrades. Hawkes had been lamenting the fact that it was incredibly hard to be a gay man in the military, and even harder to find a good lay while overseas, and John opened up to him about his lack of experience with any kind of relationship. John can still remember the look on Hawkes’ face in the dim light, the faint smile on his thin lips, the hint of _something_ in his eyes when he’d shrugged and said, “Well, if you’re ever interested in gaining any experience…”

John never figured out if he was joking or not. He’d seriously considered it for a while. Normally, John supposed that would have been the optimal time for a sexuality crisis, but it never reached that level for him. He wasn’t terribly upset by the thought that he might be attracted to a man, or to men in general. He was more enthralled by the idea of actually engaging in a physical relationship with someone. He supposes he would have had the same reaction should Hawkes have been female.

Unfortunately, that territory between them remained unexplored. Any sort of future experimentation between them vanished when that explosion occurred.

The sound of a throat clearing brings John back to the present, where Madeleine is watching him with an amused smile.

“Sorry, what?”

“I just said, I have to start my shift now, but I hope to see you around.”

“Ah, yes.”

She leaves the room then, and the next time John sees her is two days later when she asks him out for drinks. It’s the first time John’s ever been asked out, and because Madeleine is very pretty, and because John is incredibly flattered, he says yes. The evening is overall a pleasant one, if a bit dull. Madeleine tells him stories of the time she spent in Germany and John does his best to look engaged. The food is good and Madeleine looks very nice in her right red dress, but that’s all John can really appreciate. They part ways with a kiss on the cheek and a “see you at work”, and John goes home. Sherlock is lying on the sofa when John enters the flat. He lifts his head to look at John, makes a face, then closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the armrest.

“How was your date?”

“How did you –”

“Are you going to see her again?”

John’s been asking himself that since halfway through dinner. He still doesn’t really have an answer. “I don’t know, maybe.”

John lingers in the doorway and stares at Sherlock, who isn’t looking at him. He’s wearing his dressing gown, though it’s been flung open to reveal an inside out light grey t-shirt and blue striped pyjama pants. John decides the best course of action is to just leave Sherlock be. It looks like he’s on the verge of a strop, which John knows better than to interfere with. After sending one last look at Sherlock over his shoulder, John heads upstairs to begin preparations to go to bed.

The next day at work Madeleine asks John if he has plans for the next evening. John thinks it’s a bit too soon for a second date, but he can’t really think of a reason to say no, so he agrees to meet her for dinner and a movie. When the time comes for John to leave for the date, he comes downstairs to tell Sherlock he’s leaving. He had been reclining on the sofa with a book in his hand just an hour ago when John came down to shower, but now he’s nowhere to be found. John opens his mouth to shout to Sherlock’s bedroom door that he’ll be out for the evening when he hears a loud _crack_ followed by shouts of horror.

Oh, no.

John heads to the nearest window and peers out, and sees a thick cloud of smoke rising in the distance. It looks like Maestro might finally be back. John is already en route to the fight before he remembers his date with Madeleine. He doesn’t have her phone number to call her and let her know he won’t be able to make it to their date, but he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on that for too long.

Maestro stands waiting for him with a hand on his hip. When he sees John, his eyes light up. “Ah, there you are. I was wondering if you’d show up.”

“And why is that?”

Maestro lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know… It’s Friday evening. I thought perhaps you might be out with your girlfriend or something.”

They begin to circle each other, like a pair of lions sizing each other up before a territorial battle. John nods towards Maestro. “Does that mean you don’t have a girlfriend, then? Since you’ve got nothing better to do than create this mess?” He gestures to the building Maestro had been in the process of destroying.

Maestro’s mouth twitches and he gives an almost imperceptible shrug. “Girlfriends have never really been my area.”

“I can imagine,” John says with a laugh. What sort of girl would be willing to put up with the madness that undoubtedly came with dating a super villain? Even if he kept it a secret from her, he must be hellish to live with.

Maestro gives John an odd look then, and John rethinks what he’d said. He finally understands what Maestro meant and his cheeks go pink. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh._ ” There’s laughter in Maestro’s voice. John briefly considers covering himself with his cape to hide from the embarrassment. However, John doesn’t have the chance to put his foot any farther into his mouth because Maestro dives forward and grabs him around his neck, and then all he has to think about is how to win the battle.

However, Maestro’s words remain in the back of John’s mind even as he pins Maestro to the ground. He can’t help but wonder if Maestro has found himself beneath a solid body like his own before. He feels the same rush he felt that night when Hawkes gave him that _look_ and the open-ended suggestion. He hopes Maestro takes the reddening of his face to be the result of exertion and not something far more embarrassing.

Over the course of their fight, several news crews gather. John notices the lights of cameras flashing and starts to wish he’d gone to the gym a few more times in the last couple of weeks. He also starts to wish he could forget about what Maestro said right before their battle began. It was having some unwanted effects on him that could easily be seen given the tight confines of his suit, and he’d rather there not be photographic evidence of him being in such a state.

John manages to get Maestro backed against a wall and holds him in place by his throat against the brick. He’s not holding tight enough to really choke him, but he knows it’s got to be uncomfortable. Maestro struggles against his grip. His hair covers his face, making it hard for him to glare at John through the curtain of dark curls. He snarls, tries to break free once more, and upon realising that he can’t, disappears. John has won again, though it doesn’t feel like it as Maestro technically escaped.

John doesn’t quite feel up to dealing with the press just yet, so he pulls his cape around himself and hurries back to Baker Street, up the stairs and to his room. He changes into a pair of sweatpants and a thermal shirt. Sherlock emerges from his bedroom the same time John comes down from his and they enter the sitting room at the same time. Sherlock is wrapped in his sheet and his hair is tousled like he’s just woken up. He passes John wordlessly and tumbles onto the sofa, pulling the sheet tightly around himself. All John can see is his eyes and his hair.

Sherlock stares at him for a moment before closing his eyes and nestling further into his blanket cocoon. John watches him fondly before getting up to choose a book to read. Although he feels terrible about standing Madeleine up, he’s quite pleased with how his evening has turned out.

Madeleine, obviously, isn’t all that pleased when she sees John the next morning at work.

“If you didn’t want to go out with me again you could have just said so,” she tells him. John continues to drink his coffee because what can he say to that? Madeleine’s smile is friendly but her eyes shoot daggers. They don’t speak much after that.

However, being asked out by Madeleine gave John enough confidence to ask out the pretty blonde at the bank, to flirt with the woman walking her dog through the park, and he doesn’t fend off the advances of the man he keeps running into at the supermarket. None of his relationships make it past the second date, though. Not many people take too kindly to John running out on them in the middle of the evening more than once.

The first man that John goes on a date with is named Alistair. He asked John out for brunch while they were both waiting in the queue at Tesco. John has never been on a brunch date before, and Alistair has these insanely green eyes that John could stare at all day, so he’s looking forward to the outing.

It’s one of the few dates that doesn’t get interrupted by Maestro, and John is glad for it. Alistair looks handsome in his polo shirt and dark jeans, and though his hair isn’t as immaculate as Sherlock’s, it’s still nice. He tells John about his work in accounting, which should be boring, but the way Alistair talks forces John to pay attention. Sherlock is the only other person who has been able to capture John’s focus in such a way.

The food is great, but not nearly as great as the food at the restaurant Sherlock took John to several days prior. The omelettes there had been absolutely exquisite. The lighting in the restaurant fit the early hour, just bright enough for him to see his food but dim enough to match the pale glow of the sun outside. Classical music played in the background, and John remembers thinking about Sherlock playing the violin for him during that thunderstorm. There hasn’t been a storm that bad since then, and John is almost sorry for it, now that he knows how beautiful a violin sounds when paired with the sounds of a vengeful Mother Nature.

John realises he’s spent the last few minutes of his date thinking about Sherlock and feels his ears heat up. He chances a look across the table to Alistair, who seems none the wiser and continues to prattle on about the office’s new general manager, who smells faintly of roast beef at all times of the day.

Sherlock doesn’t speak when John returns home that evening. He looks angry and confused, like he’s not sure what he’s upset about. His arms are folded across his chest and he’s sunk down so far in the sofa that his feet are beneath the coffee table.

“Alright?” John asks when he takes his seat beside him. Sherlock sits up but he keeps his face turned away. His back is rigidly straight, his lips pressed into a firm line and John’s heart aches to see him to obviously distressed. He starts to reach for him but he stops himself, his hand hovering in mid-air. Sherlock turns his head minutely towards John and uncrosses his arms. He opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again, and sighs. John sits and watches him fidget, until Sherlock eventually stands with a huff and disappears into his room.

\---

Aside from the physical exertion and fear of failure that constantly plagues him, being a superhero is almost fun. John feels like he learns so much from their battles, about Maestro and himself. He learns during one particularly nerve wracking encounter on Tower Bridge that neither of them can fly. Maestro is able to levitate several feet above the ground, but it did very little for him when they both found themselves plummeting to the water below. John also discovers that day that he can survive incredibly powerful impacts, as can Maestro when they both come out on the other end of the ordeal unscathed. Well, mostly – John’s arm is a bit sore for the next day or so.

John also learns that Maestro has a fondness for classical music when he refuses to attack John while he’s standing next to a concert hall.

“What’s this?” John asks when he notices the way Maestro is carefully trying to lead him away from the building. “Is it that you’re actually unwilling to destroy something? I thought that’s all you do.”

John knows Maestro is glaring at him even if he can’t really see his face. It’s evident in his tone of voice when he speaks. “The arts are one of the very few things this city has going for it. I’d hate to see anything happen to it.”

“I think maybe you just work in that concert hall and you don’t want to lose your day job.”

Maestro gives a derisive snort. “Really, Captain? Do you think if I had a day job I’d spend all my time doing this?”

“I’ve got one.”

“So why do you continue to come and try to stop me?”

“Yes, why do I?” John asks himself. He can’t really come up with an answer. To protect London seems like the most reasonable answer. To contribute to society, to fulfil some greater purpose he still doesn’t quite understand? All equally noble, yet no answer seems quite right.

Maestro takes advantage of John’s preoccupation and tackles him to the ground. For such a slim figure, he’s very powerful. John struggles against his hold for several moments, and while he does so he glares up at Maestro.

There’s something familiar about the eyes staring back at him, about the way they’re lit up with excitement, the intense way the bore into John’s own and cause something inside him to stir. He suddenly becomes aware of the solid weight pressing down on him and the way the fingers of his right hand are interlocked with Maestro’s while he tries to push him off. He can feel Maestro’s breath fanning out across his cheeks. Their faces are so close John can feel the ends of Maestro’s hair tickling the skin at the tip of his nose. He can feel every inch of Maestro pressed against him.

One thing John learns about himself in that moment is that he is not at all averse to the feeling of a solid, masculine body pressed tightly against his own. His breathing is ragged, his heart rate elevated, and he sees that Maestro is just as affected. His pupils are dilated, his lips parted to let out shallow pants. John can only see his bottom lip but what he sees is plush and inviting. He can’t tear his eyes away, almost starts to lean in.

Someone from a crowd that’s gathered yells, “Come on, you can take him!” and that shout of encouragement is all John needs to be brought back to reality. He pushes Maestro off roughly and dodges the attack he sends in retaliation. The beam bounces off a wall and ends up hitting Maestro in the chest, knocking him back. At first he seems unaffected, but then he clutches a hand to his chest and drops to his knees. John rushes to him, and when he gets within an arm’s reach, Maestro grabs his shoulders, and then they’re flying back into a glass window.

The glass shatters, the sound rings in John’s ears as he struggles beneath Maestro, trying to get the upper hand. He grabs hold of an arm and hears Maestro shout out in pain. John doesn’t think his grip was that tight, but he has a habit of underestimating his strength. He feels the arm slip from his grasp and sends out an attack, but he hits nothing, as Maestro has disappeared again.

Someone in the crowd starts cheering, and they are soon joined by several other voices. John stands and makes his way back to where the battle started. He’s met with a crowd of at least thirty people. Two of them hold microphones out towards him.

“Angelica Shyman from the Daily Mail. What is your name, sir?”

“Captain Britannica.” The title rolls easily off of John’s tongue, like he’s given it a thousand times.

“So, Captain, your efforts to defend this city from Maestro have not gone unnoticed, or unappreciated, but there is a question on everyone’s mind: how much longer until we see the end of Maestro’s reign of terror?”

“I can’t answer your question, but I can tell you that as long as Maestro is around to wreak havoc on this beautiful city, I’ll be around to put him back in his place, as you’ve already seen.” That earns a few chuckles from the crowd.

The other reporter steps forward, the microphone held in a shaking hand. She beams at John and thrusts the microphone out further. “I just want to say, on behalf of all of London, thank you, Captain. I’ll rest easy tonight knowing you’re around.”

John smiles so wide he’s sure his face will split in half. Finally, he has an answer to Maestro’s question of why he bothers with the superhero business. He wants to help, he wants to do something good. He wants to give something back to the city that has given so much to him. He can do that as Captain Britannica. He will _continue_ to do that as Captain Britannica.

\---

John barely makes it into the flat before Sherlock rushes up to him and holds out his arm. There’s a gash in his forearm. The injury is fresh and still bleeding.

“Jesus Christ,” John hisses, hurrying up to his room to grab the med kit he has packed away in a drawer. This calls for more than simple first aid. Sherlock needs stitches. He comes back downstairs and points to one of the seats at the kitchen table. “Sit.”

Sherlock does as he’s told, and is uncharacteristically quiet. John sets to cleaning the wound and applying a topical anaesthetic to the area, not lifting his eyes when he speaks. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Knife.” Sherlock points to where it’s sitting on the counter. John sees the red staining the blade and cringes. There’s a lot of blood on there.

“Right, so did you just randomly decide to cut yourself?”

“It was an accident.”

John doesn’t respond, and instead focuses on stitching up the cut. After several moments of silence Sherlock speaks again. “I was cooking dinner for us, tried to multitask, got distracted, and it all went a bit wrong.”

“Yeah I can see that,” John says with a laugh. He doesn’t have to look up to know that Sherlock is glaring at him. He gives Sherlock’s hand a gentle pat, encouraging him to continue.

“Anyway, I was slicing some lemons to put in with the chicken when I reached to grab something off the counter, and I knocked a jar over and tried to catch it and somehow _this_ happened.” His words are coming out of his mouth so fast they’re slurring together. It takes John a moment to fully understand what Sherlock says. His eyes dart to the counter, where the knife sits. He now sees a jar of something sitting beside it.

“You’re telling me you got this gash in your arm from knocking over a knife.”

Sherlock nods his head, but John notices how he won’t make eye contact. He has two options: pretend to believe the lie or push further. He’s not sure how well Sherlock would respond to the latter, so he opts to play the fool… this time.

John finishes up the stitching and takes a minute to inspect his handiwork. He doesn’t let his fingers linger on Sherlock’s skin any longer than necessary, though it’s hard to stop himself from gently trailing his fingertips along the veins in Sherlock’s forearm. He makes the mistake of looking up at Sherlock. In an instant all the air is sucked out of the room and John struggles to keep his breathing even. His hand is still on Sherlock’s arm, their faces mere inches from each other. John licks his lips without thinking and Sherlock’s gaze dips down to watch. No one speaks for what feels like ages.

“Thank you.” Sherlock says, his eyes still on John’s mouth. John’s almost afraid for Sherlock to look up, so he sits back, clears his throat, and tries to think of a way to get rid of the odd tension that’s built up between them.

“You’re welcome. Just try to be a bit more careful.”

Sherlock stands from his seat and smirks down at John. “Yes, Doctor.” He turns and goes back to his room, shutting the door softly behind him. John watches his back until he can no longer see him. Even then he continues to stare at the closed door. For a brief moment he’s overcome with an intense feeling of longing. He wants … he doesn’t know what he wants, but he wants it desperately.

\---

Maestro reminds John of Sherlock in many ways, both in terms of physical characteristics and personality traits. They both have the same, insane piercing eyes that feel like they see straight into John’s soul. The only difference is that Sherlock’s eyes are a pale blue, and Maestro’s are a cloudy grey. Maestro’s hair looks like it’s longer and messier than Sherlock’s, but the curls are still there and the hair is the same shade of dark brown. Both men have the same lean figure and slender fingers. Maestro is playful and teasing much like the way Sherlock was when they first met. Maestro even has some mannerisms that remind him of Sherlock. For instance, the way he walks with an odd sort of swagger that shouldn’t look as good as it does, or his tendency to talk with his hands. There’s also that smirk. That damn half smile makes John want to punch it off of his face, right before running his knuckles across the bruised skin and soothing it with a kiss. John pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind, as far back as he can get them, buries them beneath rationality and logic and reason. Maestro is a villain. John is a hero. It just can’t be. But there’s a chemistry between them that’s undeniable, and John knows Maestro recognises it too.

He makes the comment once to John that he looks forward to their encounters, to the distraction they provide. John knows all too well what he means. When he’s Captain Britannica, nothing else matters – not his lonely childhood, his even lonelier teenage years, or his young adulthood that was fraught with peril and instability. He isn’t afraid of his powers when he fights Maestro. He can control them now, and he can use them for good. If only Maestro did the same.

“You know,” he says in the heat of a battle one day, “we would work so much better as a team than as enemies.”

Maestro seems to give his proposal serious consideration before shaking his head. “You’re right. We would make an excellent team, Captain.” He grins. “But this is more fun, isn’t it?”

“You call wreaking havoc on innocent citizens fun?”

Maestro freezes and doesn’t reply. John can feel the tension radiating off him, the anger, the frustration. John feels an odd shift in the atmosphere between them. “Oh, I’ve hit a nerve.” Maestro remains silent. John can’t stop himself from prying. “Honestly though, why are you like this?” Maestro drops his hands, unclenches his fists. John takes a step forward. “No one is born evil. So, what happened to you? What sort of life lead you to become … this?”

Maestro’s eyes flash with anger, but then he drops his head and holds his arms tightly around himself in a gesture that makes him seem twelve years old. “I’ll spare you the sob story and just say I didn’t have the most wonderful childhood. You must know what it’s like growing up … different.” He lowers his voice on the last word. “You somehow survived and managed to become a hero.” He gives John a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He gestures to himself. “You see what’s become of me. I think you’re smart enough to figure out how well I fared.”

John feels his heart breaking for the man in front of him. He sees the sadness in his eyes, and finds a kindred spirit in the lost boy he finds there, struggling to find his place, desperate to belong, trying and failing to fit in.

Maestro sniffs, puffs his chest out, and the moment passes. He’s back to his usual self, eyes blazing. “I was cast out from society. They wouldn’t accept me, so I earned their respect another way. I made them fear me.”

“You don’t have to do this.” John’s voice comes out in almost a whisper. Maestro groans and rolls his eyes.

“Oh, don’t you look at me like that. I hate pity. Especially from someone who’s no better than I am.”

“What?”

Maestro glares at him now, and John can see the barely contained anger lurking at the edges of his expression. Even so, there’s still a playful glint in his eye when he speaks again. “Don’t pretend you do this because you care so desperately about this city. Well, not only for that reason,” he amends when John opens his mouth. He smirks. “You’re an addict. An adrenaline junkie.”

“Does that mean you’re my fix?” John tries to keep an innocent smile on his face, but then he sees the way Maestro’s eyes darken, and he feels something twist in his chest. It’s all the answer he needs, but he doesn’t know what to do with the answer he gets.

\---

“Got any plans for Valentine’s Day?”

Maestro shouts this after dodging an attack that hits the already shaky foundation of a building that is now crashing to the ground. John avoids the falling bricks, and shouts back over the sound they make when they land.

“Why, are you asking me out?” he asks. The thought doesn’t repulse him nearly as much as it should. Maestro rolls his eyes and leaps forward to try and wrestle John to the ground.

“God, no. Just making friendly conversation.”

“You call this friendly?” John asks, a hand on Maestro’s throat and a knee in his stomach. Their conversation gets put on hold by more falling bits of building and the few blows they exchange while trying to dodge them.

“To be honest,” John says right after slamming Maestro to the ground. “I’ll probably be spending the day with my nutter of a flatmate.”

Maestro quirks an eyebrow. “Sounds fun.” He leaps up and charges at John. Somehow they end up back on the ground, with John on top and Maestro squirming beneath him. He’s panting now, each time his chest rises, it presses against John’s. It’s incredibly distracting, so John gets up and brings Maestro with him, grabbing him by the front of his suit and hauling him to his feet.

“It’s sure to be interesting,” John says with a smile. Any time spent with Sherlock is anything but dull. He’s a madman, and though his personality might be off-putting to most, his eccentricities are what make him endearing.

Maestro clears his throat. John stops thinking about Sherlock and forces himself to focus on the man in front of him, smirking at him like he knows something John doesn’t.

“You sound like you might have something planned.”

John thinks of the dinner he might make and shrugs. Maestro’s eyes quickly dart to the side. “This flatmate of yours,” he says, still avoiding eye contact. “There anything going on there?”

“Oh, no he’s just a friend. A good friend, mind you, but that’s all it is.”

Maestro nods his head, then pounces on John again, and they get right back into the battle.

\---

The next time John arrives to meet Maestro is several days later in a darkened alley at the edge of the city. Maestro is in a terrible mood. There’s no sarcastic greeting when John arrives, no witty banter, no playfulness in his demeanour. He seems upset and distracted, and as a result John manages to land a pretty heavy blow to his face. He had been aiming for Maestro’s stomach, but then Maestro moved at the last second and John’s fist came into contact with the left side of his mask.

The mask lifts for a moment, revealing just a bit of Maestro’s face, but John doesn’t really have time to see anything before Maestro’s hand flies up to cover his face and he disappears. John remains in his crouched position, trying to recall what he’d seen of Maestro’s face, but all he can remember seeing was more pale skin.

Sherlock isn’t home when John arrives. He tries to wait up for him, but around two a.m. John is yawning constantly and can barely see through the tears in his eyes. He lifts himself out of his chair with a resigned sigh and heads up to bed, planning to give Sherlock a stern talking to about staying out late at night without telling him. He can’t help that he worries, but Sherlock can help that he gives John plenty of reasons to worry.

The next morning when John wakes up and Sherlock still isn’t home, he starts to fear something terrible has happened. He calls his mobile several times, but Sherlock doesn’t answer. He spends the entire day pacing and cursing Sherlock’s irresponsibility.

It’s afternoon when he hears the door open. The minute John sees Sherlock’s face all his anger vanishes. Sherlock is sporting a fresh black eye and he’s walking with a limp. John immediately goes into doctor mode, coaxing Sherlock to sit on the sofa so he can get a look at him.

“What happened to you?”

“Couple of thugs. Just your average mugging.”

“In broad daylight?”

“It happened last night. I had other business to attend to though, so I haven’t been home.”

“Yeah, I know you haven’t.”

Sherlock gives him an odd look, which John ignores. He ducks his head down and pretends to be looking at Sherlock’s arm. He does check to make sure the stitches have healed properly. There’s a small scar in the shape of a crescent, but it’s not too noticeable. Once John is satisfied with Sherlock’s arm he reaches up and grabs Sherlock’s chin to move his face, so that his eye is in better light. He doesn’t even realise he’s touching Sherlock until he hears the sharp intake of breath. He looks down and sees that his hand is now cupping Sherlock’s face.

It’s strange, being this close to Sherlock with the main lights off and the sun beginning to set outside. The lighting in the flat is incredibly intimate. Sherlock’s expression is unreadable. John can feel the ghosting of Sherlock’s breath on his lips, and he wants…

He wants, _oh_ , he wants.

John snatches his hand away, and opens his eyes. He didn’t even know they were closed. Sherlock is watching him coolly, still no discernable emotion on his face. He simply looks at John, who stares back helplessly.

“I uh …” He clears his throat. “That will take a while to heal. You sure you don’t want to report this to the police? How much money did they take?”

Sherlock’s voice is uncharacteristically soft when he replies. “They took my mobile and what money I had in my pocket, which wasn’t much. I can get a new phone easily. There’s no need to go to the authorities.” Sherlock stands from the sofa and smoothes his shirt. “I’ll be fine.” John notices how he’s avoiding eye contact now. “I do think I’ll turn in for the night, though.” John watches him leave the room, then sits in his chair and stares into the darkness, trying to wrap his head around whatever it was that just happened.

\---

John decides that if he’s going to be staying at home for Valentine’s Day, he might as well make the evening as enjoyable as possible. He goes out shopping for dinner supplies, deciding to go all out for this dinner for himself and Sherlock, assuming Sherlock has no other plans. He’s standing in the milk aisle debating whether it’s worth it to get skimmed when he notices that he’s caught the attention of a woman standing not too far away. She has bright red hair and an even brighter smile, which she flashes at him when he finally looks her way.

“Looks like you’ve got quite a meal planned,” she says, peering into John’s basket. “Whoever your date is should consider herself lucky.”

“I don’t have a date for tonight, actually.” The smile John gives her is easy. He holds out a hand. “I’m John.”

“Cheryl.” She grabs his hand, but doesn’t really shake it. Her grip is firm. “And I don’t have a date for tonight, either.”

After a bit more friendly chatter Cheryl gives John her phone number and they agree to meet for dinner. John makes sure to grab a bouquet of red roses on his way to the register, glancing around to make sure Cheryl doesn’t see.

Sherlock is sitting in his armchair with his knees pulled up to his chest when John arrives home. He beams at John, then his eyes lower to the bags, and the flowers, and his eyes widen. “What’s all this?”

“Just some groceries.” John goes to put away the food, then takes the roses with him upstairs and starts to get ready for his date. When he comes downstairs he finds that Sherlock has changed out of his loose pants and into a suit.

“Do you have plans tonight?” John asks, sounding a bit more incredulous than he’d meant to. Sherlock just shrugs. He looks anxious, unsure, like he would if he were waiting for a date to show up. John ignores the brute stab of jealousy he feels at the thought of Sherlock going out with someone else. Someone that isn’t him.

He has no right to feel this way. They’re just friends. Friends who spend almost every waking moment together and are probably closer than some couples, but they’re just friends. It’s illogical to feel this way, especially since he’s about to leave for his own date. Emotions never follow logic though, so John’s face is still hot when he turns and walks down the stairs and out of the flat.

Cheryl flows into John’s arms for a hug when they meet at the restaurant. It catches him off guard, but he manages to hide his confusion before she pulls back to smile at him. He hands her the roses he’d bought and she makes a show of closing her eyes and breathing in deeply before slowly looking up from the flowers to John.

“These smell lovely.”

“I’m glad you like them.” He leads her inside and they’re lead to a seat by a window. John tries not to think of all the times he and Sherlock sit by windows when they eat. Sherlock seems to enjoy looking out of them just as much as John. His eyes never stay still when he looks out a window. It’s like he tries to observe as much as he can in the short amount of time he’s given.

Cheryl’s hair has been curled and pinned away from her round face. She’s a lovely woman, and John considers himself to have such an attractive date for Valentine’s. He’s also lucky they were able to get a table tonight without a reservation. He wonders if Sherlock ever makes reservations for them. He’s always friendly with the owners, and they’re always seated right away, no matter how busy the restaurant is. Perhaps Sherlock has a permanent reservation in every restaurant in London that he likes.

The waiter arrives to take their orders, and then they’re left alone again. John fiddles with his napkin and keeps his eyes on the table. “So, what do you do for a living?”

The conversation takes off from there. John learns that Cheryl is a teacher, she despises the colour green, and she’s a Pisces. John tells her about his work as a doctor, which she seems particularly interested in. They spend most of the evening with John telling Cheryl mostly true stories about the kinds of patients he’s had, making sure not to reveal any names of course.

As they’re being served their desserts, John catches sight of a bright light streaming in through the window. It’s nearly seven o’clock, and it’s been overcast that day, so John doesn’t understand why it’s so bright outside. The light soon fades, however, and John turns back to his plate. Then there’s an almost deafening _boom_ accompanied by another blinding light, and John realises just what is happening – explosions.

Cheryl’s head turns towards the window, her eyes wide as she stares through the glass. John feels exactly how she looks, though probably for a different reason. She’s probably concerned that there’s some sort of attack going on. John knows there’s an attack, and he knows that he has to go do something about it. It figures that Maestro would do something on Valentine’s Day. He never lets John enjoy any of his other dates, why would he assume that he could have this night?

“Um, Cheryl?” She turns away from the window to look at him. John gives her his best pained expression. “I’m actually starting to feel a bit unwell. I’m terribly sorry but I think it’s best I get home.”

“What is it?”

“I think it might have been the oysters,” he lies. Cheryl gives him a pitying look, and John suddenly understands why Maestro got so mad at him that time.

“I’m so sorry, John. Would you like me to walk you home?”

“No, that’s alright. I’ll call you later though, when I’m feeling better. I’d love to see you again.” He doesn’t know why he says that. He guesses it’s the least he can do after abandoning her mid-date on Valentine’s Day. She smiles and nods her head, and John leaves, walking on stiff legs back to Baker Street.

He meets Maestro at what used to be a school building. There’s broken pieces of asphalt and concrete lying on the ground surrounding what’s left of the building. Maestro stands inside the infrastructure and doesn’t seem to have noticed John yet. He looks sullen, dejected, nothing like the Maestro John is used to seeing. With his shoulders slumped just so, he almost looks like Sherlock when he’s having a strop.

John holds his breath, raises his hands, and aims carefully, his blast hitting a piece of building just to the left of Maestro’s head. That gets his attention. The moment his eyes land on John his face breaks out into an evil grin and everything is back to normal. Maestro dives for him, and the thought flashes through John’s mind to catch him, see how he would react to suddenly being in John’s arms. He shakes the thought from his mind and dodges just in time. He trips over a piece of concrete, however, and in falling, manages to reach out and grab a hold of Maestro’s suit. He hears the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric and looks down at the exposed skin of Maestro’s arm. He sees milky white skin with a small, almost crescent shaped scar on the forearm. It feels like time freezes when he sees that mark If he weren’t already on the ground his legs might have given out on him.

The hair, the mannerisms, the _scar._

That scar is exactly the same size and shape as the one on Sherlock’s arm. It’s started to fade, which means it’s been there for a while, and Sherlock cut his arm around two months ago. That’s enough time for it to have faded as much as the one on Maestro’s arm has.

John’s moment of realisation is cut short when Maestro backhands him and he’s forced to dive right back into the fray.

\---

After his fight with Maestro, John spends some time walking around London trying to gather his wits before he returns to Baker Street, before he returns to Sherlock - or, Maestro, possibly. John doesn’t know what to think at this point. Surely it’s possible that two people could have similar scars, but it’s not very likely. And there are far too many coincidences for there to be any other explanation. They have the same hair, the same light eyes, though John could have sworn Maestro’s eyes are grey. He’s failed to realise that his flatmate and friend could also be the villain he’s been fighting for months. It makes sense that he failed to determine his exact eye colour as well. John can’t help but think that Sherlock and Maestro also have the same smooth, pale skin that John has fantasised about running his hands over many times before.

Could it really be true that Sherlock and Maestro are one in the same? The mere idea of it makes John equal parts giddy and frightened. For one, it would provide an explanation for the way he reacted to coming into close contact with Maestro, the confusion he felt during and after every one of their fights. He’d been scared to admit that he might have been physically attracted to the man who is supposed to be his archenemy. Now, he’s absolutely terrified at the realisation that the mixed feelings he’s been having towards Maestro might be a result of the feelings for Sherlock he’s tried so hard to deny.

It’s almost completely dark out by the time John returns to Baker Street. Sherlock is on the sofa and aside from the fact that he’s now wearing a dressing gown, it looks like he hasn’t moved since before John left. However, John knows better. He tries to get a look at Sherlock’s arm, but the sleeves of his dressing gown are too long.

“John? What are you doing home?” Sherlock asks, feigning innocence and confusion. John almost believes the act for a moment.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

Sherlock sits up fully on the couch and watches John with wide eyes. “I would have thought you would be out late with your lady friend on this special evening.”

“Yeah, well,” John says, hanging up his coat and coming over to sit beside Sherlock, who slides over to make room for him. “Apparently I’d rather spend Valentine’s Day with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to those who are reading! I'll have the next chapter out as soon as I get it back from my beta and britpicked, which hopefully won't be too long!


	3. Call Me A Lover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [helloitslbo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/helloitslbo) and [superblue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/superblue) for beta'ing and [teaandcakes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandcakes) for britpicking!

When John was only eight years old, he realised he was special. He didn’t get the normal scrapes and bruises that the other boys his age got from long hours spent playing outdoors. He didn’t fall ill with every change of the season, and as a result never missed a day of school. Gym class was always his favourite; he never got tired and sweaty like the rest of his classmates, was always ready for another round, another game, another relay. It didn’t seem like a problem. He was just slightly different, but it was nothing to be ashamed of, nothing that made him regret who he was.

Then the fight on the playground happened, and John discovered that he wasn’t just special, but defective in a way. He was too much – too much what, he didn’t know. He just knew that whatever extra something he had was not something he wanted.

He spent years hating himself because of something he didn’t quite understand. He spent years trying to prove to himself that he deserved a place in the world, that he wasn’t only capable of pain and destruction. So, he became a doctor. He joined the army, and for the first time in his life he felt like he belonged somewhere.

That was until he went overseas to Afghanistan. He was thrown right into a battle he wasn’t mentally ready for. He realised that he was killing just as many men as he was saving. He was hurting people again. He did more damage during hand-to-hand combat than he ever did with a gun. Even now, late at night when his eyes refuse to shut, John can still hear the sound of cracking beneath his fist, he can see the blood on faces, staining uniforms, seeping into the earth beneath a limp body.

His mental health suffered, he spent many nights lying awake staring into the darkness, fighting off the cold of the desert nights. Still, he couldn’t leave. He had nothing to go back to. His father was dead, and his mother had always been an absentee parent. His sister, God help her, was off in rehab somewhere. John had no friends to speak of back home. London was always a dream of his. It was always a place he imagined coming back to, but what was he to do there? Surely they had enough doctors. They didn’t need him in London, but they did need him in Afghanistan, so he stayed. He thought perhaps it would save him, but in the end it was his undoing.

There was an incident, during a raid, where John and his team stormed a village they thought was empty of civilians. They had received intelligence that the town had been evacuated the previous week. They were wrong. They’d heard movement coming from inside a house, and one of the soldiers in John’s team swore he saw someone wearing an enemy outfit through the window. They knew an enemy camp was nearby, and that they might have come into the village, and so they went inside the house. A gun went off, John isn’t sure whose it was, but then everyone was firing and so he pulled his own trigger. It took only a few moments for someone to start shouting for them to stop. John can still remember the sight of the small bodies cowered in a corner, heads covered. He can still feel the way his heart pounded at the sight of the small dresses and trousers stained with red. If he would let himself think about it, he’d also remember the feeling of warmth spreading through his body before he exploded, literally.

The blast was mistaken for a bomb, and because John was among the group involved in the raid, his name was on the list titled ‘Missing, Presumed Dead’. No bodies were recovered. It was almost too easy to sneak away and hide himself. It was harder to find a way back to England, but through a series of underground networks, operating under the guise that he was a refugee seeking asylum, John made it to London. He tried to slowly piece himself back together under a new name. He tried to get a fresh start in the city he’d always dreamed of returning to. When he was in training at Bart’s, he often wandered the streets trying to imagine a time when he would have someone to return to after his walks.

He’s almost found that with Sherlock. He’s the closest thing John has ever had to a best friend. Even so, John is hesitant to call him that, considering there’s still so much he doesn’t know about him. He knows nothing about his childhood, about his family. Sherlock still disappears for hours on end without letting John know where he’s gone or what he’s up to. He keeps so many secrets from John, and he’s apparently been keeping a rather large one from him. John knows he isn’t completely innocent of keeping secrets, but that doesn’t diminish his anger one bit.

John looks across the room to where Sherlock is sleeping on the sofa. His feet are propped up on the armrest, his arms bent and pillowed beneath his head. John draped a blanket across him an hour ago. His jaw is slackened in his sleep, his lips slightly parted. He doesn’t snore, but occasionally lets out a puff of air that John can hear from across the room.

John watches him, tries to imagine him as the villain he’s encountered so many times, and finds that he can’t. He’s the local villain and a civilian vigilante all wrapped up into one. He says he hates the town and the people in it, yet he busts his arse trying to eliminate it of its most dangerous criminals. Well, not _most_ dangerous, John supposes. Sherlock’s got that title saved for himself. He’s never harmed an innocent civilian, though. Every battle takes place at abandoned buildings or derelict sites, so even as a villainous mastermind he’s not all that bad.

God, John has got to get a grip. There’s so much wrong with this entire situation. Not only is John faced with the dilemma of deciding what to do now that he knows his flatmate is also the villain he’s been fighting for months, but there’s an entirely new problem John’s recently come to terms with.

It’s something he hasn’t allowed himself to think about, something he’s been so afraid of to look into closely for fear that it would derail everything he’s worked so hard for. He finally feels like he has a purpose in life, like he has a place in this world, and he’s terrified of messing it up because he can’t keep his affections in check. But as the prolonged glances and “accidental” brushing of fingertips happens more often John is finding it harder and harder to ignore.

But now isn’t the time to think about this sort of thing. John has much more pressing issues than his growing infatuation. He’s just discovered the identity of his nemesis, discovered him to be the closest friend he has, and now he’s faced with the task of deciding what to do with this information.

Does Sherlock know? He has to, he’s so bloody observant. He probably knew from the very beginning. If he’s known for so long … why hasn’t he said anything? Did he just expect John to never find out? Does he not care that John is Captain Britannica?

John is struck with a horrible idea. Perhaps Sherlock only kept John as his flatmate in order to keep tabs on the new hero in town. The way he’d looked at him when they first met, the way he spoke as if he was so sure John would move in. Had he known then that John has these special powers? Did he know that once he learned of a villain terrorising London he would be unable to resist the call to be a hero? He probably got John the bloody superhero suit. It’s obvious now, it should have been then. Sherlock predicted that all of this would happen, and in being about twelve steps ahead of John, put on a show of being his friend just to keep him close. Isn’t that what everyone says, to keep your friends close but your enemies closer?

Is that all Sherlock sees him as, his enemy? Did the last few months mean nothing to him? The dinners? The walks through the park? The hours spent alone together in Baker Street? Christmas and New Year’s?

The hints that John continues to see in Sherlock that once made him think there was the potential for something more than friendship between them, is that all for show as well? Had Sherlock somehow learned of John’s feelings before he was even aware of them himself, and was he using them against him?

Well, John supposes with a glance at Sherlock’s sleeping form, he is a villain, after all. He shouldn’t be so surprised.

\---

John no longer gets any enjoyment from his battles with Maestro, but he still goes out of a sense of obligation. He goes through the motions, makes sure not to let himself leave each battle too badly wounded, then trots home and locks himself in his room until Sherlock leaves the next morning. Maestro is as mischievous as ever, still teasing, still talkative. John speaks enough to keep a running dialogue during their battles, but it’s just not the same. The dynamic is off, and Maestro seems to pick up on it. John remembers the look on his face during their last battle. John had barely spoken to him. He just couldn’t find it in himself to keep up the charade. Maestro had looked so … hurt.

That was a week ago, and Maestro has yet to make another appearance. John is almost tempted to ask Sherlock about it, but that would mean talking to Sherlock, and John just isn’t doing that right now.

They don’t spend evenings together in the sitting room anymore. They don’t go out to eat, though Sherlock invites him a few times. Each time John forces himself to look at Sherlock’s hopeful, yet guarded expression and tells him no. When Sherlock’s face crumples a third time John has to remind himself that it’s all an act, and that Sherlock doesn’t really care to spend time with him.

Instead, John spends all his free time with Cheryl. She’s amiable enough company, and when she laughs at John’s jokes he knows it’s because she really finds them amusing. Each time they go out, John half expects Maestro to destroy something to call him away from his date, but he never does. John spends the night at Cheryl’s house one time, and the next day when he returns Sherlock won’t even look at him. He’s probably just upset because he didn’t know where John was for an entire eight hours and he hates not being able to keep tabs on him. John heads into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. Cheryl hadn’t had the kind he liked, and he needs some caffeine in his system before he can fully start the day.

At some point Sherlock comes to stand in the doorway, but he doesn’t say a word until John sits down at the table with his cup.

“I’m guessing you had a rather nice evening yesterday.” Sherlock’s tone is neutral, but when John looks up he can see the tightness in his expression. He looks jealous, though it’s probably just because John has finally started to spend time with someone that isn’t him. He gives Sherlock a tight-lipped smile and takes a sip of his coffee. Sherlock sits across from him and plants his hands firmly on the table. His eyes are burning when he looks at John. “Have I done something wrong?”

_Like you would care if you had,_ John can’t help but think. He shakes his head and takes another sip from his mug. They sit in silence, staring at each other, until Sherlock heaves a heavy sigh and stands from the table to go back to his room. John starts to turn to watch him leave but catches himself. He downs the rest of his coffee as soon as it’s cooled enough to not burn his throat, then sets the cup aside and buries his face in his hands.

\---

John finds the mask by accident. He’s cleaning up the flat in preparation for a visit from Cheryl. She’s coming over for a light snack before they go to see a play, and because it’s the first time she’ll see the flat John wants it to look as nice as it can. He gets ahead of himself in his tidying, and ends up cleaning the entire flat top to bottom. He finds the mask barely hidden beneath a pile of old newspapers Sherlock had been rifling through the other day. He knows the minute he sees the black peeking from beneath the page that it’s Maestro’s mask. It’s cold in his hands, and it feels strange holding it, like he’s holding a part of Maestro himself. John trails a finger down the side of it, and it feels strangely intimate, like he’s caressing the side of Maestro’s actual face.

Why had Sherlock left it here, of all places? Though he hadn’t known John would be cleaning the flat, he had to have known that it would be easily found sitting in such a conspicuous place. John wonders if it’s supposed to mean that Sherlock’s left it there on purpose, if John was supposed to find it.

John doesn’t have more time to think about it, because Cheryl chooses that moment to ring the doorbell. John places the mask in Sherlock’s armchair, where Cheryl wouldn’t see unless she was looking for it, and goes to answer the door. After bringing her up and showing her around a bit, making sure not to let her get a good look at either armchair, he convinces her to take a walk with him and get food on the way to the play instead. He leaves the mask sitting on the chair and grabs his coat, following her downstairs.

When John returns home that night, the mask is gone.

He wakes up early the next morning, hoping to catch Sherlock before he leaves for the day, and the flat is eerily quiet. If it weren’t for the fact that the mask was missing, John would have guessed Sherlock hasn’t been home since yesterday morning.

John takes a sip of the tea he’s made and tries to focus on the programme on the television. It’s some kind of show about antiques. John can’t find the remote and doesn’t feel like getting up from his chair, so he’s trying to make the best of a mediocre situation. He pulls out his phone and sends a text to Sherlock. It’s the tenth one he’s sent in the last hour.

Normally a disappearance wouldn’t make John break his not-speaking-to-Sherlock policy, but he’s afraid the mask was a sign for something and he can’t figure out what, and it worries him. He’s terrified that he may actually get his wish, and Maestro will disappear for good.

_Sherlock, I don’t care where you are or what you’re doing. Just let me know you’re okay._

_Okay I lied in that last text. I really do care what you’re up to. Please text me._

_Sherlock?_

John goes for a walk to try to take his mind off of things. It doesn’t work, but at least he’s getting some fresh air. The flat was starting to seem too small, too cramped without Sherlock there to fill it life. Eventually John realises he’s just spending his time with his eyes darting from face to face, searching for the familiar eyes he misses so much.

He turns a corner, and something tells him to look up. There’s a figure sitting on the rooftop of Bart’s hospital, legs dangling over the edge. John’s heart drops when he notices the trenchcoat the figure is wearing.

Sherlock.

John goes closer to the building and looks up. He tries to see if Sherlock is wearing his mask or not. He is. That means John should probably meet him as Captain Britannica. He turns and begins running back to Baker Street. He doesn’t know if Sherlock … Maestro … saw him, and hopes he didn’t. John doesn’t often get the element of surprise on his side. He’s almost giddy with excitement when he pulls on the suit; it feels like getting a hug from an old friend.

When he steps out into the harsh sunlight on the roof, Sherlock, or Maestro, is still sitting on the edge, and still hasn’t noticed him. John tries to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible, but he accidentally kicks a pebble and the sound of it hitting a pipe draws Maestro’s attention. Even with the mask on, John can see the surprise cross over his face.

“Um … Captain.” His voice is barely lowered, like he isn’t really trying to conceal its natural timbre.

“Is this your hiding spot?” John asks, puffing his chest out and resting his hands on his hips. If he has to be Captain Britannica to get through this conversation then so be it. “You know, if you spend too much time up here by yourself doing nothing, people might start to worry.”

Sherlock-Maestro stares at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes. John sighs and takes another step towards him with a menacing look on his face. He sees the resulting twinkle in Maestro’s eye, and grins. “You know you can never hide from justice.” He points a finger towards the sky, accentuating the incredibly cheesy line he just spoke. Maestro’s smile nearly encompasses his entire face.

“You think I was hiding from you, but perhaps I knew you’d show up, and you’ve just walked into a trap.”

He turns and stands, walking away from the ledge. The sunlight shining behind him creates an odd halo effect around his silhouette. His coat swishes at his feet. He pulls himself to his full height and runs a hand through his hair. He looks so incredibly sexy John has to bite his lip to keep from saying so.

“How long have you been up here?” John asks.

“Why do you care?” Maestro shoots back.

John winces at the venom in his voice. He’s angry, that much is clear. He’s probably upset that John has spent the last week ignoring him. This is the first time he’s really spoken to Sherlock in days, and he’s not even really talking to Sherlock. His shoulders slump and he shakes his head. He feels like anything but a superhero in that moment. All he is, is a man wondering what’s happened to his friend, or at least the man he thought was his friend. John reminds himself that Maestro was around long before his association with Sherlock began.

“You’re angry, Captain.” Maestro sounds amused, but there’s an underlying tremor that keeps his voice from being steady. “Come on, then. Hit me. I can tell you want to.” He holds his arms out. “I’m giving you the opportunity to get in the first hit. Take it.”

John stands rooted to the spot. He can’t move, he can barely breathe. Maestro waits two more seconds, then shrugs.

“Alright then.” He stalks over to him and punches him in the mouth, hard.

That’s going to hurt in the morning.

John swipes at his mouth and sure enough, there’s blood. Yep. Definitely going to make him pay for that.

Several feet in front of him the bastard is giving him this impish grin and John wants nothing more than to wipe that smile off of his face.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” he taunts, and even from a distance John can see his opponent’s answering smirk.

“Actually, no,” he answers. “I’ve been working on something I’m sure you’ll just _love._ ” He waves his hands with a flourish and John tears his eyes away from the man to look at the black clouds forming above them. They block out the sun and cast a menacing shadow over the two of them. Then there’s the deafening crack of electricity and a blinding light knocks John backwards. His chest stings, but he’s relatively unharmed. To anyone else the blast would have been fatal, but to John it is nothing more than a slight shock.

He dusts himself off and chuckles. “Is that it, really?”

He watches his adversary rise from the ground, arms held out, palms facing upward, and the clouds begin to rumble. John watches with an awestruck smile on his face at the breathtaking image of the man before him: the lean figure shrouded in a dark trench coat that billows in the breeze like a cape, the wild mess of curls atop his head gently tousled by the wind, the black mask that reveals nothing more than a sliver of his bottom lip and those strikingly pale eyes.

John is almost too distracted by the sight of the man to remember he’s supposed to be fighting him. Finally he gathers his wits and thrusts his hands out, the familiar burn of the energy beam a welcome feeling when it radiates from his hands. He knocks his foe down from the air, causing him to land on his side with a thud. He doesn’t seem discouraged; In fact, there’s a smile on his lips when he lifts his eyes to John’s.

“So it’s going to be like that, is it?”

John quirks an eyebrow. “Isn’t it always?”

Maestro laughs and stands, and the fight resumes from there. He charges, and John ducks out of the way. There’s another attack, another dodge, a shared smile before another dodged attack. They’re so in sync with each other it feels more like a dance than a battle. The thundering clouds and occasional crackle of lightning paired with the low hum of energy shooting from John’s hands serve as the background music, and every flip and sidestep is simply a piece of choreography. John falls easily into the routine, almost moving without thinking.

Ever so often the clouds come alight and John can hear nothing but rumbling and static. He sees Maestro’s face only occasionally, when it’s illuminated by the brief flashes of white light or a beam of energy John sends his way that comes close enough to nearly singe his hair.

John moves on the offensive and crowds Maestro against a wall. He’s close enough to see the manic glint in his eye. A tiny bit of pink darts out and captures John’s attention. He’s too distracted to anticipate his opponent’s next move, and that’s how he ends up being pushed down onto his back with Maestro looming over him. His knee digs into John’s thigh uncomfortably, but John is still able to lift his other leg and kick himself free. His opponent falls roughly away from him, and John sits up in time to see a dark trench coat tumbling over the building’s ledge.

_“Sherlock!!”_

In a moment of blind panic John rushes to him and thrusts his hands out. He manages to grab one of Sherlock’s hands, but the grip is weak and their hands are sweaty. John almost gets pulled over the edge as well, but he manages to remain upright and starts to pull.

A pair of wide eyes stare back at him when he looks down.

“… John?”

John feels his hand start to slip and his heart feels like it’s being torn in two.

No. It can’t end like this. Please, no.

“John … I can’t … I’m slipping.” Sherlock sounds just this side of frantic and John’s heart aches to hear it. He may be very upset with him, but he never stopped caring for him. Not once. Especially not now that he’s dangling over the edge of the roof, just a slip of the hand away from death.

“I’m not letting you fall,” John says, and his voice breaks on the last word. He clears his throat and shakes his head. “Just keep holding on. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock looks down, and when his eyes meet John’s again they’re shining with newly formed tears. “There are people watching John. You can’t let them see you save me.”

“I can’t let you _die_.” John’s vision is blurred now. Dammit, he has to remain in control. “There has to be something you can do. You levitate, right? Try doing that.”

“As we discovered a long time ago, levitation is not the same thing as flying, and will hardly help me in a situation like this.”

“What about your teleporting thing?” John is getting desperate now.

“I’ve never tried it under such strenuous circumstances. My feet are always on the ground, I’m not usually under this much stress … ” he gives John a small smile and he laughs through the tears.

“You’ve got to try something. If you time it right, you can … you won’t … ” John can’t bring himself to say the words. “You have to.”

Sherlock squeezes his hand. At least, it feels like it. Their grip isn’t that strong. “John, if I don’t –”

“You will, Sherlock. You will.” _You have to, or else I might just throw myself off after you._

“Just let me say this,” Sherlock says with a hint of annoyance. His fingers must be hurting terribly at this point, but they’re all John can hold onto and dammit, he’s not letting go until he absolutely has to. Sherlock sucks in a breath. “I am truly sorry, for whatever it is that I’ve done to hate me so. I honestly did not intend to do it, and I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

John looks down at the ground, at the people staring up at them, and looks back into Sherlock’s eyes. He sees all the worry, all the pain, all the confusion he hadn’t let himself believe was real before. Sherlock is truly sorry, he wasn’t trying to hurt him, and John was too stupid to realise that Sherlock is just as scared as he is, just as ignorant in what to do in regards to them, their predicament.

He feels one of Sherlock’s fingers slip from his grasp, and Sherlock calls out John’s name. He sounds incredibly panicked, and John feels the same way.

“It’s alright,” he says. He pats Sherlock’s hand lightly when another finger slips free. “It’s okay.” He gives Sherlock what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “I forgive you, and I’ll see you later.”

One more finger slips out, and John can’t hold on anymore. He watches with his heart pounding in his chest as Sherlock plummets to the earth. Sherlock’s hands are still outstretched, like he’s still reaching for John. John is still leaning over the edge, eyes stinging with tears now.

He watches as Sherlock closes his eyes, and disappears.

\---

It takes John ages to reach Baker Street. The flashing of the cameras is never-ending, and the shouts of the reporters deafening. John doesn’t even stick around to answer their questions. All he cares about is Sherlock. He _has_ to see Sherlock. His footsteps become increasingly quicker the closer he gets to the flat. His hands shakes so much it takes him a several tries to get the key in the lock to open the door.

John climbs the stairs slowly, pushes the door open and peeks inside. Sherlock is standing by the window with his back towards him, shoulders slumped. When he hears John enter the room his head snaps up and he spins around on his heels. For a moment they just stare at each other, each making sure that what they’re seeing isn’t an illusion, that it’s real. Then a smile slowly creeps across Sherlock’s face and he takes a step forward. It takes John three steps to meet Sherlock halfway and he throws his arms around him, buries his face into the crook where neck meet shoulder. He can feel Sherlock’s chin pressed against his temple. Sherlock’s arms are wrapped tightly around him like he has no plans of letting go, and John doesn’t ever want him to.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he says into the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock breathes out a laugh and holds John tighter.

“I thought I had already lost you.”

John pulls back to frown at Sherlock. “What?”

Sherlock becomes fidgety, pulling at the sleeves of his shirt and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He drops his arms and steps back. John feels instantly colder. He reaches out, draws Sherlock near to him again, and stares up at him. His heart is pounding in his chest, and he can feel Sherlock’s pulse racing from here he has a hand wrapped around his wrist. Sherlock drops his head down, presses his cheek against John’s hair.

“I thought you hated me. Only stayed here because you didn’t want me out of your sight.”

“I thought that of _you_.” John says, laughing without humour. “I convinced myself the only reason you suffered with me was because you wanted to keep tabs on me.”

“Nonsense, John.” John can feel Sherlock’s lips moving against the top of his head. “I spent so much time with you because I love … doing so.” John tries to pull back to look at him, but Sherlock keeps his arms so tightly around him he can’t move. “And then you started seeing that girlfriend of yours, you spent Valentine’s with her, you spent nights at her house, you went out to dinner with her and not me. I know you’re not mine, nor have you ever been but I still felt the loss as greatly as … ” He sighs. “I thought I was losing my best friend.”

Friend. John ignores the sting of the platonic term and holds Sherlock tighter against himself. “Well, don’t worry. You’ve got me. You’ve never lost me, and you never will.”

\---

Once John recovers from the shock of nearly losing Sherlock, the anger sets in. Anger at himself for not doing anything to stop Sherlock sooner, anger at Sherlock for starting the whole charade in the first place. Where John once looked upon Sherlock with a fond eye, he now finds himself holding back grimaces and glares. As time goes on, John thinks of new reasons to be angry with Sherlock, but rather than actually talk to him about it, he allows the feeling to fester inside him until he can barely stand to be in the same room as Sherlock without wanting to shout at him.

Sherlock can tell John is upset with him. It’s obvious in the way he tries to apologise without apologising. He buys John new shirts, offers to tune up his laptop for him, and even tries to take him out to dinner at the fancy restaurant they ate at on their first night as flatmates. That only makes John think about the incredibly fancy wine they’d shared, and he remembers what Sherlock told him when he asked how he was able to afford such extravagance.

“Do you remember,” he says coldly, “when we were eating there and I asked you how you were able to pay for it?” Sherlock averts his eyes like he knows what’s coming next. John squares his shoulders and tilts his chin up to glare at Sherlock. “You said you stole millions of pounds from a bank. Was that true?” Sherlock still doesn’t speak. “Sherlock … ”

“I think it’s pretty obvious at this point, don’t you think?” He lifts his head and glares at John, but the moment their eyes meet Sherlock’s face falls and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologising to me? You didn’t steal from me.”

“Well I can hardly apologise to a bank,” Sherlock snaps. “It was a year ago, I needed money, I wasn’t thinking properly –”

“That doesn’t make it okay, Sherlock!” John has half a mind to turn Sherlock in to the authorities, and he hates himself almost as soon as the thought crosses his mind. Even after everything, he knows he would never betray Sherlock like that, not when he’s giving him those sad eyes and John can see the fear written in the furrow of his brow and the trembling of his lip.

“What should I do?” Sherlock’s voice is quiet and he won’t meet John’s curious gaze. John runs his hands over his face and sighs.

“I don’t know, maybe donate the money to a charity? To the fund that goes towards rebuilding the city?” He shoots Sherlock a look, but he’s still staring down at the floor.

“What am I supposed to do for money? I don’t have a job, as you know.”

“Then get one. Turn your hobby into a profession. People hire private investigators all the time.”

“I’m not an investigator.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter what you call it. Just make a website or put some ads in the paper, charge people for your services, and use that brilliant brain of yours to do something good for once.”

Sherlock doesn’t speak for a long time, until finally he lifts his head and looks at John. “Alright, fine.” He begins to back out of the room. “So it’s all settled then.”

John feels anything but settled, but he doesn’t say this. He just stands with his arms limp at his sides and watches Sherlock until he disappears into his bedroom.

John’s mind is swimming when he goes to bed that night. Sherlock hadn’t emerged from his room, leaving John to eat dinner alone. He hated how lonely he felt sitting at the kitchen table by himself. He hated that he kept sending longing glances in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom down the hallway. He hated that even though he was so incredibly pissed off at him, John wanted nothing more than to see Sherlock’s face in that moment. It’s not fair. It shouldn’t be this hard or this complicated. There’s still so much uncertainty about their entire situation, about their status as friends, as hero and villain …

The only thing John is completely sure of is the fact that he is absolutely smitten with Sherlock.

\---

“My parents used to say that when I was an infant, I always seemed to be telling them what I needed.”

It takes John a moment to realise Sherlock has spoken. He looks up from his book at Sherlock, who is lounging across his chair with his legs dangling over the edge, plucking away at his violin. His eyes are trained on some faraway point and John entertains the idea that he wasn’t really speaking to him. Then Sherlock’s eyes snap to his and the plucking stops. “My nanny said I never opened my mouth, and yet it was like she could still hear me. Now that alone could have just been an odd quirk or funny family story to tell future generations, chalk it up to intuition or what have you. But when I got older I could hear people talking when they weren’t.” Sherlock begins plucking at the strings of his violin again. “I excelled in school. I never bothered to make any friends, because they were all idiots to me, but I did manage to make a few enemies. Surprisingly, people don’t like it when you blurt out their deepest secrets in a room full of people.” The smile on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He shifts in the seat so that his feet are planted firmly on the floor. The plucking continues.

“I began having serious headaches around the age of eleven. Migraines with no relief. My parents took me to the doctor, had my brain scanned, and the only thing they found were abnormal brain waves and no explanation for it. They told my parents there was nothing they could find that would cause such headaches. Then I asked, ‘What about the voices in my head?’ and they sent me to a completely different doctor, a psychiatrist this time. He tried to diagnose me with everything in the book: Schizophrenia, Dissociative Disorder, Delusional Disorder, Brief Psychotic Disorder … the list goes on and on.”

Sherlock’s eyes drift back to John’s. “Still, no label fit, and yet the voices grew louder. And it got worse, people could hear my thoughts too. You can imagine the kind of trouble that got me into.” The two of them share a laugh that dies off into a comfortable silence. John thinks Sherlock is done talking, but after a brief pause he launches back into his monologue.

“My parents gave up on me soon after the doctors did. My brother was no help, and I had no friends to turn to. So there I was, twelve years old, trying to figure out why the world was shouting at me, and trying to get myself to stop broadcasting my every thought.” His eyes take on that distant look again. “I felt so … vulnerable.”

Sherlock stops talking and frowns, like he’s reliving old painful memories. John doesn’t know if he should respond. Sherlock hasn’t left much space for him to, but he feels like he should offer some sort of placation, some sort of comfort to Sherlock. This can’t be easy for him.

Sherlock turns sideways in his seat to dangle his legs over the edge once more. “I saw a show where a man put some people under a spell with his mind. I decided to try it, and it worked.”

“Like mind control?”

“Exactly.”

John had no idea that was a power of his. “Why did you never try to use it on me?”

“Oh, I did, but you’re special.” Sherlock gives him an odd smile. “Do you remember the day we met? You came into the room without me noticing. I can always sense when someone enters the room because I detect the presence of another mind. But for some reason, I couldn’t detect yours. I couldn’t sense you coming, I couldn’t read your thoughts … I couldn’t do anything.”

John remembers how surprised Sherlock had looked when John came in. John had thought his reaction odd then, but came to believe that it was just because Sherlock prided himself on his deductive prowess and his ability to pick up on the subtlest things. John guessed he had been listening for the sound of footsteps or something, not for the sound of another mind in the room.

Sherlock shifts in his chair again, bringing John’s attention back to him. “Anyway, when I was younger and tried it and it worked, I realised that I wasn’t necessarily defective, but rather gifted, albeit in a strange and incomprehensible way.”

“Alright then. Let’s skip to the part where you decide to terrorise London.” John has wanted to ask Sherlock about it for ages. He remembers the conversation he had with Maestro about a town that shunned him, about the rejection that lead him to become the villain that he was. Though part of him is still very much upset with Sherlock for what he’s done, a larger part of him cares so much about the man and wants to know every last detail about him, even the unflattering ones.

Sherlock averts his eyes. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Oh, you know, the destroyed buildings, disrupted lives, citizens living in fear of this evil persona you created. I know there can be no excusable reason for it but I still want to know, why?”

Sherlock remains quiet for a long time. “Well, after finishing college and doing what bit of travelling I did, I still felt so lost, so unsure of what to do with my life. I came here, expecting things to pick up, and they did thanks to the extensive criminal networks that run through here.” He gives John a smirk, but when John glares back at him his expression becomes more sombre. “But I still felt like I was just sort of floating through life with no purpose. I was trying to make my way in a world that wanted nothing to do with me. I got frustrated, and I needed a way to get that frustration out.” He shrugs. “Some people have yoga, others drugs … I developed my own method.”

“Well at least if you’d turned to drugs you’d only be harming yourself. You put the lives of innocent people at risk!”

“I never harmed a single person.”

“Because you got lucky. This is a heavily populated area, Sherlock. It’s because of sheer luck that no one was injured during your little tirades.”

Sherlock’s eyes flash with anger. “It was not luck. It was because of my thinking that no one was ever hurt.”

“No one would ever have been at risk of being hurt if you hadn’t decided to become a villain! You knew what you were doing was wrong, that’s why you kept your identity a secret.”

“Let’s not act like I was the only one keeping secrets, _Captain_.”

“No. You cannot use that against me. The only reason I did any of that was because I knew someone had to stop you.” John forcefully closes his book and stands from his chair. “I can’t believe you don’t see what’s wrong with what you’ve done.” The more John thinks about Sherlock’s reckless behaviour and careless abandon when it comes to the lives of innocent people, the angrier he gets.

John knows what it’s like to think you’re being careful. He was at the top of his game the day his men killed those poor children, the day he took part in their slaughter, the day he caused the deaths of many good men. He’s at least sorry for what he’s done. Sherlock doesn’t seem to care at all how easily he could have ruined someone’s life.

John heads for the stairs. “I need to lie down.”

“John!” He freezes, but doesn’t turn around. He hears Sherlock shuffling behind him. “Will you tell me your real name?”

“As far as you’re concerned, it’s still Johnothan Sacker.”

Sherlock doesn’t stop him this time when he starts walking again.

\---

It takes John a while to calm down, and when he does he feels horrendous. Sherlock finally opened up to him, it was probably the first time he’s opened up to anyone, and John yelled at him and left him alone in a darkened room.

Of course Sherlock wouldn’t know to think about the effect his actions had on others. He grew up not knowing what it meant to care about anyone. All he’d ever experienced was poking and prodding throughout his childhood, followed by rejection and avoidance in his later years. It isn’t Sherlock’s fault that he’s the way he is, and John doesn’t believe that there’s anything seriously wrong with Sherlock. John’s tragic backstory seems mild compared to what Sherlock went through.

He tiptoes downstairs and peeks his head into the room. Sherlock is still sitting in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, staring at nothing. He lifts his eyes when John enters the room fully and watches him as he takes a seat in the armchair. John crosses one leg over the other, places an elbow on the armrest, and uncrosses his legs before speaking.

“I began walking at a very early age.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. John sucks in a breath and continues.

“My paediatrician just said the muscles in my legs must have developed quickly. That was the first indication, I suppose, that I was different, and the only one for a while.” He takes in a deep breath and stares down at the floor. “My sister told me this story about how we found a bird in the garden with a broken wing. She left me alone with it to go find our mother and ask for help, and when she came back outside I was holding the bird in my hand and its wing was fixed. I was only six years old, then, and my sister four. My mother just told us we must not have looked close enough the first time. But now I know, I healed that bird somehow. I guess that was the second indication that I was different. Then when I was eight I got into a fight with a boy on the playground and put him in the hospital. Nobody would go near me after that. They saw me as a fighter and nothing else. I wanted to be a healer, to show people that I wasn’t violent, but all they saw when they looked at me was an eight year old with bloody fists.”

“So you became a doctor.”

“I wanted to prove to people that I wasn’t dangerous, but medical school was expensive and there was no guarantee I’d get a position anywhere, so I looked to the army. At the time it seemed like a great idea. I could use my strength to protect my country and use my knowledge to heal my fellow comrades. Even then, I knew most of my fellow soldiers were wary of me. They’d heard stories of what I’d done during training, how none of the guys wanted to spar to me because I was too quick, too strong. It was almost like primary school all over again.” The words are spilling quickly from John’s lips now. Sherlock sits quietly with his hands folded in his lap, eyes trained on John’s face as he struggles to maintain his composure.

“Ever hear of the Northumberland Fusiliers?” Sherlock nods his head, and John places a hand on his own chest. “Captain John Watson, here.” Sherlock doesn’t respond, just continues to stare at him. John takes in a shaking breath and continues with his story. “I was a part of a raid that left three children dead. It was already hard enough keeping a grip on my sanity, but at that point I just lost it. When I came to, I was lying in the middle of a circle surrounded by piles of ash that used to be people.”

John is startled by a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock has moved his chair closer, and when John looks into Sherlock’s eyes they’re concerned. He doesn’t look afraid or disgusted, even after hearing what he’d done. John doesn’t understand it. How can Sherlock not hate him? Even as a villain he prides himself on never hurting anyone, and John’s just told him he’s responsible for so many deaths. Sherlock leans even further towards him, grips his shoulder so tightly it almost hurts.

“You must know that none of that is your fault, John. You aren’t any lesser because of what happened.”

“I –”

“You should come clean about who you are, John. Let the world know you’re alive. I’m sure there are people who miss you.”

“What? No, Sherlock, no. If I let the world know I’m alive there will be questions, and I’ll have to give them answers. Everyone will know what I did.”

“You did nothing wrong, John. It wasn’t you that hurt those people –”

“Killed, Sherlock. I killed them. Friends, fellow soldiers, children, all dead because of me. That’s unforgiveable.”

“I forgive you.” John has never heard three words uttered with such meaning behind them. It takes all his willpower to not collapse into a blubbering mess right then and there. Sherlock moves closer to him. “You are an amazing person. You have done so much good in your life. You remained a doctor because it’s in your nature to heal, not destroy. You became a bloody superhero to protect the citizens of London.”

“There’s no undoing what I did, though. You can’t just erase something like that with a few good deeds.”

“It’s not just a few good deeds.” Sherlock sighs and runs a hand through his hair. The action makes his curls look less tamed, and his hair looks longer, almost like the mess that sits atop Maestro’s head. Sherlock moves his other hand from John’s shoulder to his knee and gives it a squeeze. “I’m sure London would find it incredibly easy to love and celebrate the man who got rid of Maestro for good.”

“Are you saying …?”

“You’re right, John. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep tormenting this city, these people. It was never really them I was angry with, and I realise that now. It’s time I stopped this destruction. You can give me any punishment you see fit during our final battle.’ The solemn look slowly fades from his face and is replaced by a mischievous grin. “So, what do you say, up for one last round?”

\---

They spend the next few days choreographing their final showdown, as John’s taken to calling it. They practice in the privacy of their flat or in places Sherlock knows no one will be near. John’s job is to try and recreate the explosion that overcame him in Afghanistan, and Sherlock practices with quick teleportation. The plan is to make it look like John’s attack vaporises Sherlock. To everyone else all that will remain of Maestro is a pile of ash that Sherlock will conceal on his person until the right moment.

It takes Sherlock very little time to master his teleportation trick, leaving behind a small pile before he fully disappears. It takes John longer to work up enough energy for a fatal explosion.

“Just think of something incredibly distressing,” Sherlock tells him during their last practice. “The strength of your power is tied to your emotions. I don’t know how you haven’t figured that out yet.”

“What if I can’t do it?” John asks. He’s been trying, and so far the most power he’s been able to conjure up was barely enough to set a rubbish bin on fire. Surely no one would be convinced that Maestro is vaporised by such a weak explosion.

Sherlock grabs him by both shoulders. “You’ll be fine, John.” His eyes dip down briefly before meeting John’s gaze again. “I believe in you.”

John places his hands over where Sherlock’s are still resting on his shoulders and smiles. “I’m glad someone does.”

\---

They meet in Piccadilly Circus so that they can attract the largest crowd possible for this final encounter. John still wishes he’d been able to convince Sherlock to meet somewhere empty, like they usually do, but Sherlock assured him they would merely start their battle there, and move to a more remote location for the final attack.

Sherlock is waiting for him when he arrives, and John has to fight to keep the smile off of his face when he sees him. He’d forgotten how much he actually missed this superhero stuff.

“I just can’t seem to get rid of you,” he says.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side. “Maybe that’s because you don’t really want to.”

There’s far too much truth in that statement. John would be devastated if Sherlock were ever to cease being part of his life. It’s part of the reason he’s so apprehensive at the start of this battle. There’s always the chance that something could go wrong, and he would seriously hurt Sherlock, or worse. If he had to bury Sherlock, knowing his death was his fault, he would never be able to recover.

Their battle begins as any other would, with attacks and dodges and a running dialogue between them. It’s strange, how comfortable John feels diving out of the way of the attacks of his best friend and flatmate. It’s almost calming to him. He fears he might miss this too much after Maestro is gone.

When they finally move away from Piccadilly, through one alley and quickly into another where no one is fast enough to follow them, John readies himself for the finale.

_Just think of something incredibly distressing._

Incredibly distressing.

Well, to John there’s nothing more distressing than the thought of losing Sherlock, so he uses that. He can tell that Sherlock is getting tired and that it’s time for the battle to end. He allows himself to remember what he’s been keeping locked away in a dark corner of his mind since the day it happened. He thinks about seeing Sherlock tumble over the edge of the building’s roof, he thinks about letting him fall, of not being able to save him. He conjures up images of Sherlock lying on the blood stained pavement. He meets Sherlock’s eyes, imagines them glassy and lifeless, and everything goes white.

When John comes to, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. A pile of ash sits at his feet. In the distance he can hear shouting, he can feel heavy footsteps on the pavement rushing towards him.

The crowd eventually finds him standing in the alleyway, and once everyone has had the chance to take in the sight before them, a cheer erupts from the crowd. John continues to stare at the pile of ash. He hopes it’s just the remnants of one of Sherlock’s experiments and not Sherlock himself. Everyone else believes it to be all that’s left of Maestro.

The cameras start flashing. People hold microphones to his face, begging for an interview. The shouts of the reporters becomes a deafening roar and John feels like he’s been backed into a corner. Someone comes forward to clean up the ash pile and puts it in a bag. They start to take it away, but John stops him and holds his hand out.

“After all, it’s the least you could do after what I’ve done.” He tries to keep a smile on his face, though deep down he’s terrified that he might be holding the ashes of his best friend.

“The least you could do is tell us your name,” one reporter says with a wink. John just smiles at her, then turns to leave, pulling his cloak over his head as he does so. He has to get back to Baker Street, he has to see Sherlock, he has to see that he’s still alive.

Sherlock is waiting for him inside the flat with a wide smile and a tight hug. They go out to dinner that night, to a Chinese restaurant not far from their flat. Sherlock tells the maître d’ that they’re celebrating.

“I think everyone is tonight,” is his reply. John tries not to think about the implications behind that sentence. He knows it’s not true, but it feels like the town is celebrating Sherlock’s death, and it gives him a sick feeling.

For the next few weeks, all anyone can talk about is the apparent death of Maestro and the disappearance of their beloved superhero. John and Sherlock manage to lie low during this time, only leaving their flat for necessities like work and buying food. Sherlock spends his days pacing the flat, playing his violin, and complaining to John about his increasing levels of boredom. John spends his time trying to keep from staring at Sherlock too much when he prances about the flat in nothing but pyjama bottoms.

At first John rather liked the idea of getting to spend more time with Sherlock in their flat, but he soon comes to realise that more time together inside means more time for Sherlock to drive him mad without realising. And it’s not just his playing the violin at all times of the night, or forgetting to buy milk when he uses the last of it. It’s the sleepy smile he gives John in the morning when he emerges from his room, the way his fingers trail lightly down John’s arm when he says goodnight. John is sure he’ll lose his mind before the month is out.

He breaks things off with Cheryl. It isn’t fair to her to keep seeing her when he’s so completely smitten with Sherlock. Even if Sherlock never actually returns his feelings, which he sincerely doubts is true, John’s heart is very much taken by him. He doesn’t tell Cheryl this when they meet for coffee in the afternoon. He tells her that she’s a lovely girl, and that he believes she can find someone much better than him, so he’s letting her go to do just that. She’s confused and a bit hurt, which John expected, but they part ways with a hug at least.

When John returns to the flat Sherlock’s eyes sweep over him. He tilts his head and bites his bottom lip, and finally his eyes widen and his jaw drops. He schools his features into a bored expression and meets John’s eye. John has known him long enough now to know that Sherlock is quite pleased with the new development. He smiles at him.

“I’m making a stir fry tonight.”

“Sounds delicious.”

\---

There are calls for Captain Britannica to reveal himself. The city holds celebrations trying to entice him to come out of hiding. A university building is renamed after him, but John stays home that day. A statue is erected in Clapham Common Park. John and Sherlock go for a night-time stroll in the area to see it, long after the crowd has gone. The mayor awards him a medal of honour, and John stands in the crowd with the rest of the citizens and listens to the speech. He pretends to be looking around with the rest of them when the mayor asks if Captain Britannica happens to be in attendance.

“They’re throwing a gala in your honour,” Sherlock says one evening as they sit together sharing a container of Thai noodles. “I heard the Prime Minister is supposed to attend, as well as a host of other dignitaries. Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

“Oh, I’d love to” John says. Not picking up on the sarcastic tone, Sherlock lifts his head, eyebrows raised, hopeful. John shakes his head and Sherlock sighs. They don’t talk about it for the rest of the night.

The next morning Sherlock asks again, and he asks again that afternoon. Before they head their separate ways for bed Sherlock asks once more, and John briefly considers saying yes just to shut him up.

The next time John says no, Sherlock throws his hands up in frustration. “For God’s sakes, John. They want to thank you. They want to celebrate you, to honour you. They want to love you. They want to do everything you never thought anyone would do.”

John shakes his head. “They want to love Captain Britannica. That’s not me.”

“Of course it is! Not only are you physically the same person, but every other quality he possesses you do too. You’re strong, courageous, caring, and protective. You’re absolutely amazing.”

John’s head snaps up at that. Sherlock’s eyes are wide, like he realises he’s said too much. Their eyes remain locked, and neither man speaks. Then Sherlock clears his throat. “I just … I feel like you should allow yourself this. You need to start thinking of yourself the way everyone else sees you.” He holds his hands behind his back and drops his head. “The way I see you.” He turns and walks quickly back to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him before John can finish processing his words.

\---

Captain Britannica calls for a press conference the next day. John wears his suit at the podium and takes a minute to look out at the sea of faces staring back at him. He finds Sherlock in the front of the crowd, and smiles. Sherlock gives him a half smile in return.

“I um … thanks for coming out, I guess.” All is silent save for the sound of cameras flashing. “I’ve seen what you all have been doing for me and it really is touching. Thank you. And now I hear you’re throwing some sort of gala? Just for me? It’s unbelievable.” He takes in a breath, finds Sherlock’s eyes and keeps his attention there. “I just want to say that I’m honoured, and that I’d love to attend, so …” Sherlock gives him a thumbs-up. He knows what’s coming next.

John’s eyes do one more sweep of the crowd before breathing in deeply and pulling off his mask. “Put down an RSVP for John Watson.”

\---

John spends the next week or so giving interview after interview, answering the same set of questions over and over again. He talks about his experience in Afghanistan, and he tells everyone that his powers allowed him to survive the blast that killed the rest of his team. He doesn’t say that his powers are also what caused it, and he doesn’t mention the raid at all.

The night before the gala Sherlock helps him pick out an outfit. Because John doesn’t have any formal clothes and hasn’t had the time to buy some with all the interviews and whatnot, Sherlock is allowing him to borrow a shirt and a pair of trousers. The trousers he gives John are apparently too short for him, which makes them just a bit too long for John.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock tells him when he complains about the possibility of tripping the entire night. “You’ll be seated most of the time. Unless you drink a bit too much champagne again and try to dance.” His eyes sparkle when John looks at him. They smile at the shared memory, and John has to force himself to look away and walks over to Sherlock’s wardrobe to retrieve a shirt. He sees the dark suit … Maestro’s suit … hanging among the rest of Sherlock’s clothing and takes a minute to run his hands over the fabric. It looks so empty without Sherlock wearing it, like the shed skin of a powerful snake, left abandoned by the body it used to cling to. John sighs, grabs a few shirts, and places them on the bed.

They all fit him weird, but of course, that’s to be expected. They’re tailored to fit Sherlock, who purposefully gets his shirts a half size too small, and John’s not as skinny as he is. In addition to that, his arms are shorter than Sherlock’s by far, and all the sleeves completely cover his hands.

John takes a look at himself in Sherlock’s full-length mirror. He takes in the sight of him wearing Sherlock’s clothes, shirt half buttoned like he’s had to hurry up to get dressed after a night spent with Sherlock and was in too much of a rush to put on the right set of clothes. He glances at Sherlock lounging across his bed, tries to picture him just as dishevelled, with a sex-sated grin on his face. The look on Sherlock’s face shows his thoughts are following a similar pattern as John’s. And yet, neither of them says a word.

For two people who spend nearly every waking minute around each other and talking to each other, there’s a lot between them that goes unsaid. Like when Sherlock asks if John would like to accompany him on a walk, it’s understood that Sherlock just wants to spend time with him without Sherlock uttering a single word of this. When John makes him breakfast in the morning he doesn’t tell Sherlock it’s because he wants to start his day by sitting across from him at the kitchen table when he’s still a bit drowsy and his hair is flattened to his head on one side from where he’s been sleeping on it.

The air has cleared between them, but they’ve still been dancing around each other, orbiting each other when they’re in the flat together, never wanting to be in separate rooms but making sure not to get too close when they’re together. It’s been driving John insane, and he knows Sherlock’s patience on the matter must be wearing thin.

John turns to face Sherlock and watches the way his eyes hungrily rake over his exposed neck and chest. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before he looks away, looking ashamed to have been staring.

“John, this is senseless.” Sherlock pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them. He stares up at John with wide eyes. “We can’t do this.”

_Do what?_ John wants to ask. _Pretend that there’s nothing between us? Pretend that you’re not the only real friend I’ve ever had, the first to make me smile after years without laughter, the only person I can imagine myself coming home to for the rest of my life? That it’s been killing me all this time to be so close to you and not be able to call you mine?_

“I agree,” he says. Sherlock gives him a small smile and holds his arms tighter around himself.

“I don’t know why I thought we could ever get away with you wearing my clothes. We’ll just have to find you something to wear tomorrow morning.”

John can’t believe it. Now’s the perfect opportunity to get everything out in the open, and Sherlock chooses the cop-out. He looks afraid to say anything more, just waiting for John to speak. He’s not even making eye contact, just sitting there in a ball on his bed, staring at a picture on the far wall. His posture is stiff, his eyes hard, his jaw clenched and his mouth pressed into a firm line.

He’s afraid. That’s all it is. Sherlock is afraid that he’s misread John, that he’s somehow wrong in suspecting that John is willing to move into unexplored territory with him. Perhaps he’s afraid of the unexplored territory, of putting himself on the line, of being hurt again, of being left alone once more. He doesn’t want to start anything because he’s too afraid of how it could end.

Well, John supposes he’ll just have to be brave enough for the both of them. He sucks in a breath and starts to walk slowly towards Sherlock.

“Yeah, we can do that.” Sherlock senses him approaching and turns his head to face him, but his eyes still won’t meet John’s. John reaches out a shaking hand and places it on Sherlock’s knee. He gently pushes until Sherlock unfolds himself and puts his feet on the floor. He stares up at John and it looks like he’s holding his breath. To be honest John’s gone a bit lightheaded as well. He just might be holding his without realising it.

“And while we’re out getting my outfit for the gala, we can find one for you too.”

“Me?” Sherlock’s eyes follow John’s hand as he places it on Sherlock’s shoulder and begins stroking the fabric of his dressing gown with his thumb. He swallows hard and looks back up at John. He looks hopeful now, but still cautious. “I wasn’t aware that I was attending.”

John places his other hand on Sherlock’s other shoulder and squeezes tightly. “I _am_ allowed a plus one.”

“I was under the impression that you were planning to bring a date.”

“Well, I’d like to.”

“Oh … ” Sherlock trails off and John can see his eyes clouding. He’s still confused, too blinded by his own fear to fully comprehend what John is saying. Then his face clears and his mouth drops open. He stands and John’s hands fall from his shoulders. “Oh.”

John is standing close enough to Sherlock now that they’re breathing the same air. He places a hand on Sherlock’s chest, feels his rapid heartbeat, and smiles up at him. “That alright?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it, swallows, and nods.

John’s hand moves from Sherlock’s chest to his shoulder, and then around to the back of his neck to play with the soft curls there. “Good.”

He lifts his head and his nose brushes the skin of Sherlock’s jaw. With his eyes closed he can feel Sherlock tilting his head downward, and his breath hitches in the back of his throat. Sherlock’s lips are soft when they brush his, his mouth firm, demanding when it captures John’s in a fervent kiss. Months of tension instantly melt away and John lets out an involuntary sigh. Sherlock takes advantage of John’s parted lips and deepens the kiss, his tongue delving inside to explore the inside of John’s mouth with curious flicks and tender caresses. John buries one hand further into Sherlock’s hair, and brings the other around to rest on Sherlock’s back, pulling him impossibly close.

There’s a hand at the back of his neck, fingers carding through his hair, caressing his scalp. Sherlock’s touch is so gentle, his lips still a bit hesitant, but he’s not pulling away. He’s pressing forward, becoming more forceful as he becomes more confident that John really wants this, really wants him. A hand drops to John’s cheek and he feels a thumb caressing the skin there. John never knew it was possible for a kiss to feel so intimate. He’s never felt so cherished before.

Soon he’s smiling too much to continue the kiss, so he pulls back and looks into Sherlock’s shining eyes. He runs his thumb along Sherlock’s bottom lip, along his jawline. He runs a hand through his hair.

“You know,” he says, “I’ve imagined this a thousand times.” He laughs. “Part of me is wondering if I’m just dreaming now.” Sherlock’s eyes are soft and smiling when he looks at John. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, tasting where John’s been. John places another kiss at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. He turns his head to catch his lips, then pulls away again. “Not even in my wildest dreams was this moment so perfect.”

“You should know John that I am very inexperienced when it comes to relationships.” Sherlock begins, then stops short. “Is that even what you want?”

“Yes, Sherlock. I want anything and everything you’ll give me. You should know I care for you more than I ever thought possible. You are my best friend, the most important person in my life, and I wouldn’t be able to function if I were to ever lose you.”

“I love you, John.” Sherlock blurts the words out suddenly. John doesn’t react for along while. Sherlock’s face becomes panicked and he starts to step away. “I –”

John kisses him again. He gives him a hard peck, and pulls back enough to mumble “I love you too,” against Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock grabs John’s chin and tilts his face up to capture his lips in another kiss. This time John doesn’t pull away.

\---

The initial ceremony and dinner lasts for about an hour and half, and after that comes the neverending steam of those who want to meet John and thank him for his service, both as a superhero and as a member of the army. The Prime Minister is in fact in attendance, and John prides himself on the fact that he’s able to actually hold a conversation with him.

There are politicians and news reporters and other people John couldn’t care less about. One woman greets John with a hug and her fingers trail down the sides of his arm when she releases him. John can sense Sherlock tense beside him, so he reaches down and places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder while he speaks to the woman. Sherlock reaches up to lace his fingers through John’s, and her eyes follow the movement. She quickly excuses herself and John sits down beside a smug looking Sherlock, and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

Someone else walks up to their table and introduces himself, but John forgets his name almost as soon as he says it. He pulls a chair up to the table and plants himself in it, and leans in close to John.

“You know, there’s a rumour floating around that Maestro isn’t really dead.” John notices the way Sherlock perks up at that. The man leans in even closer, and John feels Sherlock tugging on his hand, urging him to lean back, which he does to appease him, not because he isn’t interested in what this man has to say.

“Where have you heard this?”

“Well, people have been saying it since your last fight with him, mostly just speculating as to how he could have faked his own death like that. He’s supposed to be indestructible, so why is it that all of a sudden he gets vaporised by some explosion? He’s endured bullets, fire, and even grenade explosions, so it makes no sense that this explosion would have killed him. Seriously hurt him, sure. But killed? No offence to you, but you can’t be _that_ powerful, right?”

John turns back to look at Sherlock, who is watching the man just as intently as John had been. He has a hand up and stroking his chin and his eyebrows are furrowed. He briefly meets John’s eye.

“Well, anyway, some people said they saw him lurking about in an abandoned building site the other night.” He holds his hands up and shrugs. “I dunno, I just thought you might like to know.”

“Yes, thank you.”

The man leaves, and John sits back in his seat, staring into space. Sherlock is eerily silent beside him.

“So, is what he said true?” John asks, turning to Sherlock, who won’t meet his eye. “Sherlock…”

“I can assure you I have not put on that suit since the last time you saw me in it.”

John is sceptical and he hates that he is. He knows he should trust Sherlock, and he really wants to, but he is being incredibly quiet. Sherlock grabs John’s hand with both of his own and holds it tightly.

“You must believe me John. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

John hears the sincerity in his voice and can see it in the urgency with which Sherlock looks at him. He really is telling the truth, which means the message boards are just making up stories. John tries to quell the feeling of disappointment inside him. Part of him had almost been hoping that Sherlock was planning to return as Maestro. With him gone, John feels like he’s lost half of his identity. The only reason he was at this gala in the first place was because of Maestro, and dammit, he missed him. He knows that “Maestro” is sitting beside him, but he isn’t really. It’s Sherlock holding his hand, Sherlock staring at him so intently, not Maestro.

Sherlock gives him love and affection, and a reason to come home at the end of the day. Maestro gave him a reason to actually get out of bed. He gave him a sense of purpose much higher than he felt prescribing cold medicine day in and day out. Maestro gave him that rush he’d been craving in the months following his leaving Afghanistan. He truly was his fix, and John has been itching for a hit for ages now.

Sherlock rubs his thumb across John’s knuckles. The action grounds him, brings him back to reality, to the present. He looks into Sherlock’s eyes and sees them brimming with love for him, and chastises himself for thinking he needs anything more than this. He looks down at their joined hands resting on Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock’s hands are so big they can almost completely cover John’s. It makes him feel protected, as silly as that may sound.

“You’re bored,” Sherlock observes. There’s an odd way he says this that makes John wonder if he’s really talking about the gala.

“You read my mind,” John answers with a smile. He can’t help but smile every time he looks at Sherlock now. He still can’t believe that this gorgeous, brilliant man is his to hold, to love. He’s surrounded by a room full of people who want to celebrate him, but the only opinion he cares about is the one Sherlock has of him.

Sherlock stares at him with softened eyes and the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. John leans in to kiss him, and doesn’t pull away until Sherlock gives John’s hand a squeeze. “I’ll be right back.”

“Alright,” John answers before opening his eyes. Sherlock gives him a quick peck before he gets up and leaves the room. The instant he’s out of sight John begins to miss him. It’s ridiculous, like he’s a bloody teenager or something.

He certainly feels like one in this room full of accomplished adults, though. Dignitaries, military men of higher rank than him, government officials, all in one room, all certainly of a higher status than him. He laughs to himself. Of course he would feel so out of place even at an event thrown for him.

John’s about to pull out his phone to text Sherlock and ask where he’s run off to when the doors of the ballroom open and a figure strolls in. The moment John’s eyes land on him he has to bite his lip to keep from smiling too hard.

Maestro saunters around the tables, ignoring the horrified gasps of the attendees. His eyes are blazing when they lock with John’s.

“Hello, Captain. Did you miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read this! Hope you liked it. I do have an idea for a possible sequel to this but as it stands that won't be in the works for a long time, if I ever do decide to write it. I hope you enjoyed this fic though!


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